


Magnetic Storm

by skeleton_twins, thekeyholder



Series: Magnetic [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8807461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: Abigail Gordon is struggling with a school project, and she winds up getting help from notorious criminal kingpin Penguin. As she becomes friends with the criminal, she can't help but notice something between her father, Commissioner Gordon, and Penguin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is our first collab story (together and separately), and we're incredibly excited about it! Written for [Gobblepot Winter 2016](http://gobblepotgazette.tumblr.com/post/153682854029/gobblepot-winter-2016); we're using several prompts from the bingo card, but they will appear in later chapters.
> 
> Thank you [Nekomata58919](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekomata58919/pseuds/Nekomata58919) for the beta!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

Abigail Gordon peeks out of her room to make sure that her dad has finished talking on the phone. The Commissioner is sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. He looks tired, he always does, but Abigail takes a deep breath and walks into the room.

 

“Dad? Can you help me with my history assignment?”

 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Jim says, and pats the sofa beside him. “Come here.”

 

Smiling, Abigail settles beside Jim, cuddling to his side, and Jim wraps an arm around her shoulder.

 

“So, what is this assignment about?”

 

“Gotham’s gangsters,” Abigail says with a bit of apprehension, looking up to see her dad’s jaw tighten. She knows he doesn’t like the topic, and avoids discussing it as much as possible.

 

“What about them?”

 

“Well, I know I could read up on them in books and newspapers, but I really need to get a good grade on this essay. So I thought that I would do a more thorough research, and impress Ms. Harrison.”

 

“These are the kind of things you study at school?” Jim asks, shaking his head. “Sadly, gangsters aren’t  _ history  _ yet.”

 

“It’s contemporary history, dad, and it is a part of the city, whether you accept it or not. Come on, you were there when the war between the mob families started, right?”

 

“I was. I had just returned to Gotham.”

 

“See? An actual witness’s account is better than what books or papers could tell me,”Abigail points out. When she sees the frown that starts to form on her father’s face, she quickly reminds her dad, “It’s really important I get a good grade on this or I won’t pass Ms. Harrison’s class.”

 

Jim is silent for a second, and Abigail is convinced he has changed his mind about helping her until he finally speaks, “Alright, what do you want to know?” 

 

Abigail grins, “Who’s Carmine Falcone?”

 

“No one you should know about.”

 

“But  _ dad _ !”

 

“Okay, okay… he was the mob lord of Gotham at the time.”

 

“Sal Maroni was his enemy, right?”

 

Jim rolls his eyes. “You already know everything, I’m not sure what else you want to hear from me. But at the beginning, there was a balance in the city. The two families were civil with each other — they had divided Gotham, and each ruled over their part. Each family did their dirty business on their territory, and didn’t care about the other.”

 

“So what caused the war then?” Abigail asks, confused.

 

“Not what, but  _ who _ . It was a complete surprise. He weaved his plots in the darkness, unobserved. No one suspected an umbrella boy to climb the hierarchy – I guess that’s how he wins, because people always underestimate him,” Jim adds quietly, and Abigail doesn’t know how to interpret the admiration and wistfulness in his voice.

 

”Who is this man?”

 

“Oswald Cobblepot.”

 

Jim is staring at the wall across the room, lost in his thoughts, his expression not even similar to the one he adopts when he talks about criminals.

 

“You mean The Penguin?” Abigail asks, and turns to have a better look at her father.

 

Jim just grunts, and gets up from the sofa. “It’s getting late, you should go to bed.”

 

“Wait, dad, I have more questions,” Abigail protests, but Jim shakes his head. “Not tonight. Time to go to bed, Abby.”

 

Abigail sighs, and wishes her dad goodnight, acting as if she’s already forgotten about their discussion, but even as she’s lying in her bed, all she can think of is her dad’s face when he was talking about Penguin.

 

The next morning the conversation from the night before still lingers in her mind. The way her father spoke about the man known as The Penguin sparked her curiosity. She has many questions. Who was he to her father? Why did the mention of his name alone bring a melancholic expression to her dad’s face? She knows that it would be pointless asking her father these questions. An idea started to form in the back of her head last night, and this morning it has solidified into an actual plan. If her father doesn’t give her answers, then she must find them out by herself. 

 

So that afternoon, right after school, she decides to visit The Iceberg Lounge. Although she’s never been to the club personally before – she’s been advised by her father to avoid this part of Gotham – the building was unmistakable. She’s nervous when she approaches the entrance to the club, for there’s no telling what will happen when she walks through the door. She can picture her father’s reaction if he knew where she was right then, and she’s almost tempted to just turn back now. However, if she doesn’t go through with this, she’ll never know the truth, at least not the whole version of it. Her curiosity outweighs her nerves.

 

The club is empty, something she’s not surprised about, given that the sun is still out and it is a  _ nightclub _ . Which is why she decided to come during the day instead, since it would be lacking its usual crowd of low level criminals and other people her father had probably put away. 

 

Across the room, she spots a man behind the bar putting up bottles of alcohol onto a shelf above him. He’s quite small, has dark hair and is wearing a suit that looks much too fancy for a simple bartender.

 

As she starts to approach the bar, the man turns around and stops when he sees her. She notices a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes before it vanishes, a guarded mask in its place. 

 

“We’re closed,” the man says, walking around the bar. That’s when Abigail notices the limp. 

 

“You’re Oswald Cobblepot!” 

 

Oswald squints at her, “And you’re much too young to even be in here. How old are you? Fourteen?”

 

“Fifteen,” she corrects him smugly, holding out her hand. “I’m Abigail Gordon-”

 

Oswald quickly cuts her off, “Yes, I know who you are. You couldn’t deny that your Jim’s daughter even if you wanted to.” 

 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” She asks, curious at what his response would be, although she thinks she can already guess it. There seems to be a compliment lurking underneath his words by the way his voice sounds. She recognizes that tone ‒ it was the same one her father used the night before, while he was talking about the man in front of her. 

 

Much to her dismay, he doesn’t answer, instead his gaze drops to the outstretched hand between them. He eyes it warily, as if he’s not expecting such politeness from her, and she wonders if that has something to do with her father. She thinks that the subtle hint in his tone is somehow incompatible with this distrust, but Oswald Cobblepot looks like a man of contradictions.

 

“What exactly is Commissioner Gordon’s daughter doing at my club?”

 

“Oh, right.” Abigail moves her bookbag off her shoulder, unzipping it and pulling out a notebook. “I’m working on an essay and was wondering if you could help?” 

 

Oswald looks intrigued now, “You want  _ my _ help?”

 

“Yes, I was hoping I could ask you some questions if you don’t mind.” 

 

Oswald tilts his head in thought, “What is the topic of this essay that would require my assistance?”

 

Abigail pauses before answering, not sure how Mr. Cobblepot would take the response. “Gotham’s gangsters…”

 

“You came all the way here ‒ a place run by a criminal and full of illicit activities ‒ just to make inquiries for your report?” 

 

“Uh...Yes?”

 

Silence ensues. Oswald is watching her, but Abigail isn’t sure he’s really looking at her; instead, his mind seems to be somewhere else, like he’s lost in a memory from a long time ago. She clears her throat, “Mr. Cobblepot?” 

 

The noise startles Oswald, and brings his attention back to the present. “Does your father know you’re here?”

 

The question throws her off guard; she didn’t expect the subject of her father knowing her whereabouts coming up in the conversation. “I-I...Uh-”

 

Before she can even stutter out a response, Oswald is already pulling out his phone from his pocket, dialing a number. “Hello,James. No, this isn’t about that… just thought I’d let you know that your daughter is here at The Iceberg Lounge.”

 

Abigail winces at the shouting on the other end of the line, but Oswald just rolls his eyes. “She’s okay. Just come and get her.”

 

“Would you like to drink something till your dad gets here?” Oswald asks, and Abigail splutters. “Not alcohol, young lady, what do you think I am? I have apple and orange juice.”

 

“Uh, apple is fine, thank you,” Abigail says, and watches curiously as Oswald pours her a glass, then disappears in what she assumes is his office. So Penguin has her father’s number… interesting. Although she assumes it’s not that difficult to get a hold of the Commissioner’s number. A couple of minutes later, Oswald returns with a bowl of peanuts for his guest, and a thick book under his arm. 

 

Abigail cranes her neck, and notices that it’s a ledger. How boring, she’s sitting with the biggest criminal lord of Gotham, and he’s doing his accounting. She sighs, and thinks she should try to ask for his help again. “Mr. Cobblepot? Won’t you help me?”

 

“No, I don’t think your father would approve of it.”

 

“Why are you so afraid of him?” Abigail exclaims, and taps her fingers against the counter.

 

“Afraid of him?” Oswald scoffs. “Please. I’m the furthest away from fear.”

 

With a sigh, Abigail resigns to asking other questions, and sips her juice. Not much later, her father bursts into the club, and the expression on his face would be best described as murderous. Abigail shrinks in her seat under Jim’s hard stare, and his hand feels heavy as he puts it on her shoulder.

 

“How could you be this foolish?!”

 

“Dad…”

 

“We’ll talk when we get home.”

 

She knows it was stupid of her to come here, and that her curiosity would get her in trouble. Abigail watches as her dad steps to Oswald, very close to him, definitely breaching his personal space. However, Oswald doesn’t seem bothered: in fact, he looks as if he’s expected this. He’s not submissive or defiant, no. He looks as if he’s playing a game he’s been part of many times before.

 

“What did you tell her?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Jim leans in even closer, and Abigail knows this is him assessing whether Oswald is lying or not. There’s a tension vibrating in the air, as the two keep staring at each other, until Oswald looks to his left at the counter. “I just offered Miss Gordon some juice.”

 

She doesn’t know why, but Abigail holds her breath. Her father glances at the glass on the counter, and then finally nods. He steps back, and then wraps an arm around Abigail, dragging her towards the exit.

 

“Goodbye, Miss Gordon. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Abigail looks back once more, Oswald Cobblepot watching them with a grin and sparks in his eyes. He sends her a little wave goodbye before she’s completely out the door.

 

She’s surprised to find Harvey outside the club, waiting by his car, arms stretched over the roof of the vehicle. 

 

“Uncle Harvey, what are you doing here?” 

 

“Was with your old man when he got the call. Never could pass up a chance to see my favorite niece.” Harvey grins.

 

“I’m your only niece,” Abigail says, sliding in the backseat. She feels a bit relieved that Harvey’s here, delaying the inevitable confrontation with her father’s wrath for a more few minutes. 

 

Abigail has seen her father angry before, she has seen him frustrated over not being able to crack a certain case before, but nothing is worse than seeing him being disappointed with her. 

 

“What were you doing at Penguin’s joint anyways?” Harvey ask, eyes catching hers in the rear view mirror. 

 

Abigail throws a quick glance at her father in the passenger seat, hesitating before responding, “I was trying to ask him some questions for a history assignment.” 

 

“If you needed help with your homework, you could’ve come to your Uncle Harvey. I may not look it, but I’m way smarter than that weasel you were talking to,” Harvey pauses for a second before adding, “and your dad too!” 

 

Abigail can’t suppress the giggle that escapes her mouth. Her shoulders are shaking as she presses a hand to cover her mouth. Harvey shoots her a wink through the mirror, pleased at seeing her worried frown shifting into a smile. 

 

“That’s enough, Harvey. This isn’t a laughing matter.” Jim reprimands. “What she did was absolutely reckless.” 

 

“Relax, Jimbo. Nothing happened. She’s completely fine. Honestly, the whole thing reminds me of something you would do. How many times did you go to Penguin for help?” 

 

Abigail’s ears perk up at that. Her father used to go to Mr. Cobblepot for help? 

 

“That was different.” Abigail can tell her father is getting flustered by the way the back of his ears are starting to turn red. “I was a cop and it was  _ always _ for a case.”

 

Even though she’s incredibly curious, she doesn’t ask anything ‒ it’s not exactly the best time. Harvey drops them off in front of their house, and shows his thumb to Abigail, who looks back desperately. 

 

She sits down on the sofa, watching as her father paces a few times before he stops in front of her.

 

“Do you realize how absolutely  _ irresponsible  _ it was of you to go there?! How many times have I told you not to set foot in that part of the city?”

 

Abigail hangs her head. “I just wanted some help with the essay.”

 

“But from  _ him _ ?! Are you aware how dangerous he is? How many people he’s killed? He’s been the number one crime lord for more years than I care to admit. Of course, he’s rich and powerful enough now not to do it himself, but he’s still a gangster.”

 

Tears burn in Abigail’s eyes, and the lump in her throat prevents her from saying that that’s not what she saw in Mr. Cobblepot’s eyes, and that he could have hurt her easily, but instead offered her juice and called her father immediately.

 

“I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

Jim rubs his face. “You’re a clever girl, Abby. Don’t ever do anything reckless like that, okay? I have to go now, but I’ll help you out with the essay one of these days, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Abigail whispers, and pouts as her dad leaves and gets back into the car with Harvey.

 

She goes to her room, pushing the thousands of questions about Mr. Cobblepot to the back of her mind. Her father was right, she shouldn’t have gone there. She’ll do the research for the essay the right way, and hope for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Many thanks to Nekomata58919 for the beta!

All the motivation and inspiration Abigail found in her father’s lecture was lost by the second day. It all starts with her teacher handing out the test they took the week before ‒ all graded and scored ‒ back to the class. The paper slides onto her desk as her teacher walks on by, moving onto the next student. Up in the right hand corner, staring up at her in angry red ink, is the letter F; next to it is her teacher’s handwriting, telling her to see her after class. 

 

Disappointment swells in her. Once again, she finds herself clutching a failed test in her hands. She doesn’t understand why this keeps happening. Abigail has spent hours studying, putting all the effort she physically could so she could pass her exams, and it hasn’t paid off. It never does. After the bell rings, and all the students disappear into the hallway, Abigail stays at her desk waiting for her teacher to bring up the topic of her failed exam.

 

“Thank you for staying after class, Abigail. There’s something I wish to discuss with you. This won’t take long, I don’t want to make you too late for lunch,” Ms. Harrison starts. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to stay behind. You seem like you’re struggling, and by the looks of it, this isn’t the only class you’re failing.”

 

Mortified, Abigail doesn’t respond, too embarrassed to speak. 

 

“Is there something going on at home? Something distracting you from your schoolwork?” The teacher asks.

 

Abigail wishes that was the case. She wishes that she had a good excuse as to why she’s failing almost every single class she’s taking. School used to come easy to her, but ever since she’s started high school, she’s been struggling keeping up with her work. She’s overwhelmed by the amount of homework she receives, from all the lessons during class that don’t make a lick of sense, and of course, from all the difficult tests she keeps failing. 

 

When Abigail doesn’t say anything, her teacher sighs and moves on, “Regardless of your test score, there’s still a chance you can turn your overall grade around for this class. If you manage to get an A on your history essay, your final grade average will raise to a passing score.” 

 

Abigail feels a little bit better knowing there’s still a chance to pass her class, despite her failing the exam, but the good mood vanishes when she reaches the cafeteria. All the tables are mostly filled. It didn’t take long for the cliques to form, everyone falling in line and quickly finding their niche, their place, where they belong. Abigail has slipped through the cracks, not landing anywhere on the totem pole. Instead, she goes unnoticed by pretty much everyone. She feels invisible.

 

Feeling afraid of possible rejection if she tries to join one of the groups, she decides to skip lunch. Instead, she goes straight to the school’s library, looking to get started on research for her essay. She already knows the perfect book that will help her in this endeavor, she meant to check it out the week before, but never got around to doing so. She moves straight to the section it was last placed in, but finds the book gone from its spot.

 

Seconds turns into minutes as she searches for the book, looking through every shelf, hoping that it simply got shuffled and misplaced in a different location. After searching through the entire library, she gives up and approaches the circulation desk.

 

“I’m looking for a book, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere… Do you happen to know if it’s been checked out?”

 

The librarian doesn’t look up from her magazine she’s flipping through, “What’s the title?”” 

 

“ _ The History of Gotham _ ,” Abigail tells her. 

 

“Sorry, we don’t have it anymore.” 

 

“But it was here last week?!” 

 

The librarian shrugs, “It’s was ordered to be taken off the shelves, so it was taken off the shelves.” 

 

Abigail tries not to let this get to her. There were still other avenues to explore. Other ways to get the information she needs. “Alright... What about old newspapers? Do you have any I could look at?”

 

“Nope. Those have been pulled from the records as well.” 

 

“You can’t be serious.” 

 

“Afraid so.” 

 

Abigail takes a deep breath, feeling frustrated, “I guess I’ll just have to try the public library then. Thanks.”

 

After school, she goes straight to Gotham’s public library, only to discover that all the books that have anything remotely to do with Gotham’s history are gone as well. Overnight, all the materials seem to have vanished ‒ gone without a trace. Throughout the day, her optimism and her confidence that she could follow her father’s example have been chipping away. After failing her test, spending another lunch alone, and now her only chance of getting a passing grade in her history class suddenly disappearing leaves her feeling hopeless and desperate. 

 

As she sits, head in her hands, on the entrance steps of Gotham’s public library, she realizes that the only chance she has of getting a good grade is back at the Iceberg Lounge. Even though her father had promised to help her with her essay, she knows the chances are slim to none of him actually having enough time to sit down with her to help. Besides, she needs to get a good grade, and the only way to do that is to get the full story, not the edited version. 

 

Therefore, Abigail finds herself in front of the Iceberg Lounge again, just as ‒ or even more ‒ nervous than the first time. If her father finds out… but she won’t let Mr. Cobblepot phone him again. She absolutely has to convince him to help her out: there’s no way she will walk out from there without the information she needs. When she enters, she spots Mr. Cobblepot at the counter, looking over some documents with a tall, well-built man.

 

“Mm-hmm, this doesn’t look good, Alex. I think you should pay them a visit, and teach them a lesson.”

 

Abigail stops abruptly, unsure whether she should walk into this wolf’s lair. Oswald looks up, and grins with obvious pleasure. He takes off his glasses, and pockets them. “Ah, Miss Gordon! What a lovely surprise.”

 

Mr. Cobblepot’s henchman turns slowly, his cold gaze making Abigail’s arms erupt in goosebumps. 

 

“Did I… come at a bad time?” she asks, suddenly cursing her stupid idea.

 

“Hmm, indeed, I’m afraid you heard too much… Alex, finish her.”

 

Abigail is too shocked to even blink, let alone run.

 

“But, Boss… I thought the Gordons were off limits?”

 

Oswald scoffs and rolls his eyes at his goon, shaking his head. “It was a joke, Alex. You’re dismissed.”

 

The man walks away, and Mr. Cobblepot gestures for a very pallid Abigail to have a seat at one of the tables. “Come now, Miss Gordon, this was just a test to see how brave you are.”

 

“And did I pass? Because I’m failing at everything else.”

 

“With flying colors. So, let’s see if we can turn around the situation for that ‘everything else’. I assume this is about your essay?”

 

“That’s right. I don’t know what happened, but all the books and newspapers I could use have mysteriously disappeared,” Abigail huffs, and watches as Mr. Cobblepot takes the seat across from her. “Please, Mr. Cobblepot, you have to help me! I can’t fail the class…”

 

“What does your dad think about your visit?”

 

“He’s fine with it,” Abigail answers quickly, more prepared this time. “I told him the books have vanished, so there’s no other choice.”

 

Oswald narrows his eyes, but doesn’t comment anything.

 

“Will you help me then?” Abigail asks, heart pounding in her throat.

 

After some deliberation, Oswald answers, “I will,” he raises his index finger before Abigail could interrupt him with her exclamation, “on one condition.”

 

“Okay… what would that be?”

 

“For each of your questions, I will also ask one. You ask something, I answer, and vice versa. I promise to be completely honest in my answers, so I expect the same courtesy from you, Miss Gordon. Fair’s fair.”

 

Abigail can’t really imagine what she could know that Oswald Cobblepot doesn’t, so she agrees to the terms. “Deal,” she says, and shakes hand with the gangster.

 

Even though she’s supposed to find out more about Gotham’s gangsters, Abigail’s first question has nothing to do with that topic. “Why are the Gordons off limits?”

 

Mr. Cobblepot is visibly shocked for a moment, but he fixes his expression in the blink of an eye. He can’t do anything about the redness spreading from his cheeks to his neck, though. “I thought you wanted help with your essay?”

 

“You said you’d be completely honest in your answers,” Abigail uses Oswald’s words against him.

 

Oswald smiles, though Abigail has the impression that it’s just out of habit, after decades of dealing with uncomfortable situations. “Very well. I know it may sound unbelievable, but I value your father and everything he does for the city. He manages to somehow keep everything in order. Well… as much order as you can have in Gotham, anyway. I may be on the other side of the law, but that fragile order is vital for my business.”

 

“Okay, let’s say I believe you, but your man said  _ Gordons _ . Why does that statement include me as well?”

 

“Ah ah, Miss Gordon, remember our deal. You used up your question, now it’s my turn.”

 

Abigail huffs, but her annoyance dissipates when she looks at Mr. Cobblepot: his eyes are sparkling, and he’s leaning over the table, clearly invested in the discussion. There’s also something in those eyes that she cannot name… it’s the same look her father has when she gets a good grade at school. Or rather, used to… she hasn’t seen that look in a long time, and she suddenly realizes that she’s really yearning for it.

 

“So, Miss Gordon, you said you’re failing at school. Tell me, what is the reason for this?”

 

She goes through a series of reactions, from surprise to anger, but then she just settles for resignation. Embarrassment. Here was a man whom ‒ according to the father ‒ used to be an umbrella boy, and now is the mob king of the city, has been one for what, twenty years? He must clearly be someone highly intelligent, otherwise he could have never resisted in this position for such a long time. What could she tell him, so as not to seem dumb? So that she won’t appear as a failure?

 

“I… am not sure. It’s just… too much at once.”

 

That is, of course, true ‒ but certainly not the whole truth. Surprisingly, Mr. Cobblepot just hums empathetically, and doesn’t press for more details. 

 

She repeats her question from earlier, “You explained why my father is off limits…  But why am I included in that as well? I’m not a cop ‒ I don’t bring order to the city ‒ I’m just a regular citizen.”

 

“No, but you  _ are  _ Jim Gordon’s daughter. It’s only logical, if something were to happen to you…” Oswald trails off, shaking his head. “Let’s just say your father would go absolutely mad. Besides, what kind of monster do you think I am, going after kids?” 

 

Abigail’s not sure whether to believe him about his last statement of not going after children. Her father taught her never to underestimate anyone, and Abigail thinks Mr. Cobblepot is certainly a man not to be underestimated. Regardless, she’s satisfied with his answer, and figures she would probably move on and get to the task at hand. 

 

“So, what is your second question?” Abigail asks the gangster.

 

“Well… you know, Miss Gordon, I feel very honored that you came to me for help, but I do wonder… why didn’t you ask your father to help you?”

 

“Oh… I did, at first, but he’s terribly busy. He works so much, and he’s always so tired when he comes home. He’s already worried about my grades, I didn’t want to burden him with this stupid essay too. I had to solve it alone, you know? It’s my problem.”

 

Mr. Cobblepot nods. “Yes, Jim’s always overworking himself.”

 

Abigail now actually takes out her notebook and pens before asking Mr. Cobblepot about the gangsters twenty years prior. Just as promised, the man depicts the context honestly. His account is also much more detailed than her father’s, so Abigail notes down everything assiduously, from Falcone to Fish Mooney and Sal Maroni. Names she heard before, but which only meant some letters up until this point. Now, thanks to Mr. Cobblepot’s lively words and colorful descriptions, they appear as real people, as if she’s always known them.

 

After he makes sure that Abigail has written down every essential information, Mr. Cobblepot asks his third question, perhaps even more surprising than the first ones. “So… tell me about your mother.”

 

“My mother?” Abigail knits her brows. “Uh...she’s called Louise, she’s forty-five, travels a lot, and lives about an hour and a half from Gotham.”

 

She can see that Mr. Cobblepot is even more intrigued now, and would like to ask more, but he’s tied by his own rule. He smiles knowingly, and Abigail feels a little bit guilty, given that the man has given her an extensive answer to her question. She wonders if she needs to win back his generosity. If she’s right that there was  ‒ or maybe still is ‒ something between Mr. Cobblepot and her father, she could try to appeal to that…

 

“Dad said that you used to be an umbrella boy, but that your intelligence made you climb on the hierarchy very fast. Is that true?”

 

When she notices Mr. Cobblepot’s eyes widening, Abigail knows she hit the jackpot. “Your father said that?”

 

Abigail nods, and Mr. Cobblepot fights against a smile threatening to break out on his lips. “Well. I guess he is right, although I also had a good amount of luck on my side. Moreover, none of that would have happened, had Jim not spared my life at the very beginning.”

 

“Wait,  _ what _ ?” Abigail exclaims, and sits up properly.

 

Oswald smiles mysteriously ‒ he lured Abigail in a trap, just like she has done to him. 

 

“Okay, what’s your question?” Abigail pretends to be cross, but she is smiling as well.

 

“You said your mom lives an hour and a half from Gotham… does that mean your parents aren’t together anymore?”

 

Once again, Mr. Cobblepot goes for a personal question. Abigail is only surprised by the fact that he’s asking something he could easily find out with some investigation. “No, they were barely married for four years. They divorced when I was around three. Never tried getting back together: they’re both really busy with work. But now tell me about how dad spared your life!”

 

“My, someone’s very impatient!” Oswald laughs. “Long story short: your dad had to chose, either he killed me or the mafia killed him and his uh, Barbara.”

 

“I know about her, they were engaged.”

 

“Indeed… so Bullock drove to the pier, opened the trunk where yours truly was stuffed into, and Bullock told your dad that he had to shoot me.”

 

“Holy shit!”

 

“Language, young lady.”

 

“Sorry… please continue, Mr. Cobblepot.”

 

“I honestly thought that would be my end. I begged your dad not to shoot me, but then he walked me to the end of the pier, and I was convinced he’d do it. However, he told me not to come back to Gotham, fired his gun and pushed me into the ice-cold water.”

 

Abigail has to blink a few times, and Oswald grins at her. He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth slightly, as if he’s unsure whether he should say what’s on his mind. “What your dad didn’t know was that before all this mess, I made an agreement. I asked Don Falcone to let Jim be the one to shoot me.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Because I saw his goodness from the first moment. His honesty and incorruptibility. If I had any chances to survive, they were based on the goodness of your dad’s heart.”

 

It takes a few moments for Abigail to process what she'd just heard. She’s not surprised that her father had spared Mr.Cobblepot’s life, because she  _ knows _ her dad would never shoot a man in cold blood, and definitely wouldn’t to please the mafia. Mr.Cobblepot at the time didn’t. Her father was a complete stranger to him, and yet he willingly put his life in her father’s hands.  

 

“You didn’t even know my father… You risked your life on an assumption. How could you be certain that he wouldn’t have killed you?!”

 

“I didn’t.” Oswald tells her honestly. “It’s not every day a good man comes to Gotham and when one does, like your father, it’s unmistakable.” 

 

One thing Abigail wasn’t expecting to find out from this conversation was the strong regard the mobster has for her father. She would have anticipated the opposite, but from her earlier conversations with her father, it’s obvious the respect seems to go both ways. 

 

“Are you satisfied with that answer, Miss Gordon?” Oswald asks with a twinkle of amusement, watching the younger girl ponder over his response. 

 

Abigail nods, although this only fuels more questions about the nature of her father’s relationship with this man. 

 

“So your father..” Oswald starts, and his tone is what catches Abigail’s attention. His eyes are cast aside, not directly looking at her, “....Is he seeing anyone currently?” 

 

It clicks then. His question is the final puzzle piece that slides into place and ties the whole thing together. Mr. Cobblepot is in love with her father, and has been for a long time by the looks of it! 

 

Abigail tries to keep her face as neutral as possible when she responds, “Nope. Not that I’m aware of.” 

 

Abigail watches Mr. Cobblepot’s face closely after answering. He manages to hide his expression for the most part ‒ probably after years and years of perfecting the craft ‒ but there’s no denying the way his eyes light up at the news. She’s not sure how she missed all the obvious signs the first time he brought up her father’s love life. 

 

Abigail is surprised to discover that she’s been talking with Mr. Cobblepot for over an hour now. Time seems to fly in the mobster’s presence. She quickly gathers her belongings, stuffing them in her backpack. 

 

Oswald blinks and realizes that Jim’s daughter is packing and standing from her seat. A part of him is disappointed that she’s leaving so soon. He doesn’t know whether she’ll return, and surprisingly, finds himself hoping that she does. He has enjoyed his time with the young girl, despite the painful memories it brought for him. She reminds him so much of Jim.

 

Abigail turns around right before she hits the entrance, “Can I come back tomorrow?” She asks, sounding hopeful. 

 

Oswald pretends to consider her question, like he would honestly deny a Gordon anything... as if he was capable of such a thing. “Hmm, alright. But only because you’ve been well-mannered and polite so far, and those qualities are ever rarer these days.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. See you tomorrow!”

 

Well, this is a first in Oswald Cobblepot’s life: a Gordon who’s looking forward to seeing him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! There's more Jim/Oswald interaction in this chapter, so we hope you enjoy it. We also have the first prompt from the bingo card: 'snow'. :)
> 
> As always, many thank to our beta, Nekomata58919.

Abigail barely makes it home ten minutes before her father arrives. Her heart is pounding madly, but she forces calmness in her voice as she greets her dad. She thinks about how foolish she was to visit Mr. Cobblepot, but then she opens her notebook, and sees that she’s already written four pages. That’s more progress than… ever. The gangster is full of amazing stories, but Abigail tells herself that’s not why she will return the next day.

 

She returns not just the second day, but the day after that, then the day after that and so on. Mr. Cobblepot doesn’t hide anything, and after the second day, they even forget about their arrangement, and just ask questions from each other whenever it occurs to them. In addition, Mr. Cobblepot always offers her something: pecan pie, candies, or hot chocolate. Abigail can’t be sure, but she has the feeling that the gangster likes her. Whether that’s because of her father or because of her own persona, she doesn’t know, but she doesn’t think the man would tolerate a brat, even if the kid was called Gordon.

 

As her essay becomes longer and more detailed, Abigail becomes more relaxed. Even at school, she breathes in more easily, and goes to classes feeling less anxious. Unfortunately, her illusion of things going well is shattered when she gets back her Math test. She was absolutely sure that she passed it, given that she’s studied for several days, and even made extra exercises. She struggles with tears as she’s staring at another F. The only thing that would be even more embarrassing than her grade is if she started crying in class, so she fixes her gaze at the blackboard, and thinks about anything else.

 

She wants to go home after school, but she told Mr. Cobblepot that she would return so they could finish the essay. She knows he’d be disappointed if she stood him up, and anyway, he’ll probably offer some much needed chocolate, so Abigail heads for the Iceberg Lounge again. She thinks she managed to wipe the anger off her face, but as soon as she enters the club, Mr. Cobblepot notices that something is not right.

 

“Miss Gordon… are you all right?”

 

“Uh… not really.”

 

She sits down at their usual table, and hands over her test as an explanation. She watches as Mr. Cobblepot’s face falls. Great, now she succeeded in disappointing him as well, not just her dad. She tries to wipe her eyes without being noticed. 

 

“It’s not the end of the world, Abigail,” Mr. Cobblepot says, his words remarkably gentle, just like the hand he puts on the girl’s shoulder.

 

This is the first time he called her by her name - Mr. Cobblepot has always addressed her with Miss Gordon so far. But Abigail likes this better: it doesn’t sound so official and businesslike.

 

“It’s pretty bad, though,” she replies, and looks away.

 

“Let’s have a look at your Math homework, all right?”

 

That’s how Oswald Cobblepot ends up tutoring Abigail in all the subjects she’s failing. Even after her essay is done and handed in to Ms. Harrison a whole week before the deadline, Abigail returns to Mr. Cobblepot’s club. She finds that he explains complicated concepts much better than her teachers, and doesn’t mind when she asks dumb questions.

 

After a couple of weeks, results are already visible. Abigail’s grades are improving, and it’s not just Mr. Cobblepot who commends her, but her father as well.

 

“Well done, Abby,” Jim says one evening after dinner. “You’re a smart girl, I knew you could do it. Oh, by the way, how’s that essay going? Do you want me to help?”

 

“I handed it in already… I had around eight pages.”

 

“I see…” Abigail thinks her father looks a bit disappointed. “So that’s where you’ve been all these afternoons?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I always stayed at the library, to do the research and then the writing. It was calmer there,” Abigail lies, turning around to put away some plates, so that she doesn’t have to look into her father’s eyes.

 

She then remembers the flyer she’s seen at school, and thinks this is the perfect moment to ask him.

 

“Dad, I wanted to ask you something. There’s this party on Friday, and everyone is going. Can I go?”

 

“ A party? What party? Where?” Jim asks. “And who else is going?”

 

“Josh, one of my classmates is organizing it in his house.” That’s lie number one: Josh is a senior, not her classmate. “It’s not going to be a big party, just a small gathering actually.” Lie number two. Abigail swallows. “And Christina is definitely going. You know, I told you about my friend Christina?” Lie number three and four. Christina is not her friend, just a popular girl at school, and she definitely hasn’t talked about her to her father.

 

Jim strokes his mustache pensively, a habit he acquired over the years. “Well, your grades have been good lately, and you’ve worked so hard. You deserve a little fun,” Jim adds with a smile.

 

“Thanks, dad. You’re the best!”

 

Abigail finds herself counting down the days until Friday. Everyone she knows is going to be there at the party, and this is her one chance to actually make some friends. When Friday finally comes, she’s too anxious to pay attention in class, counting down the minutes until school’s over instead of taking down notes. Thankfully, that day isn’t an eventful day. She doesn’t even have any homework for the weekend! 

 

Even Mr. Cobblepot can tell she’s excited when she enters his club that afternoon. 

 

“Hi, Mr. Cobblepot!” She sings, shrugging off her backpack and leaving it by the entrance door. 

 

“My, my, someone’s in a good mood.” 

 

She can’t help but beam at him as she takes her usual spot, joining him at the bar. 

 

“And what, pray tell, has got Miss Gordon in such high spirits?” He asks over his shoulder, disappearing from view momentarily before returning with a plate full of freshly baked cookies. 

 

He places the cookies in front of her, and busies himself with getting her a drink. Once he returns with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, he leans forward over the bar, eyes narrowing, “Are you smiling over some boy?” 

 

Abigail chokes, “What?!”

 

“Or girl.” Oswald adds. “I don’t judge.”

 

“Oh my God!” Abigail can feel her face heat up under his gaze. “No, Mr. Cobblepot, it’s nothing like that!” 

 

“Good.” Oswald says, relinquishing his hold on her mug. “You’re much too young to be dating anyways.”

 

“You sound like my dad.” 

 

“Your father is a wise man then.” He tells her, looking a bit proud at her statement. 

 

“Don’t worry.” Abigail grabs the handle of the mug after he slides it over the bar’s countertop in her direction. “I’m just going to a party.”

 

“A party, huh? Well then, in that case, have fun and do be careful, Miss Gordon.” 

 

Abigail hides her smile at his words, chewing on a cookie. Over the past weeks of coming here, she’s started considering Mr. Cobblepot a friend. Although she can’t be certain if the feeling is mutual, he does seem to be concerned about her safety.

 

“Now, what are we working on today?” Oswald inquires. 

 

“Oh, I don’t have any homework. The party isn’t until later, so I thought I could kill some time with a visit.”

 

Oswald pauses, a look of shock coloring his face before it disappears altogether. Miss Gordon decided to visit despite not having any schoolwork. She just wanted to visit him. Oswald is having trouble processing that ‒ people usually want something from him.

 

Abigail starts to worry when he doesn’t say anything after a while. “Is that alright, Mr. Cobblepot?”

 

The question shakes him out of his stupor, “Of course. As long as your father allows it, you’re always welcome here, Miss Gordon, whatever the reason.” 

 

She feels guilty about lying to Mr. Cobblepot about having her dad’s permission to come. Abigail tries to tell herself that it was necessary, that it was her only option, regardless that it doesn’t change the fact that she’s lying to someone who has done nothing but help her.

 

Abigail ignores these feelings, and instead sends a bright smile to the man behind the bar, taking a sip of her drink. It seems she’s adding more to the pile of lies each day. Constantly hiding behind half-truths. What kind of person does that make her? 

 

She spends the next thirty minutes with Mr. Cobblepot, listening to his wild tales from the past before she leaves. She still has to make it home before her father does, and has to get ready for the party that night. 

 

Her giddiness for tonight returns as it starts growing dark outside, pushing aside the guilt she experienced earlier. Her father has to work, so on the way, she has him drop her off a few houses down from where the party actually is. 

 

“Don’t forget to call if you need anything or want to come home early,” Jim reminds her as she starts to get out of the vehicle. “If you can’t reach me, then call Harvey.”

 

Abigail looks back at her father, “I know, dad.”

 

“I know you do.” He says with a bit of a smile. 

 

“Love you.” 

 

“Love you too. Remember what time curfew is?” 

 

Abigail lets out a mock exasperated sigh, “Yes.”

 

“All right, all right.” Jim holds his hands up in surrender, “just making sure. Be safe and have fun, Abby.”

 

She waits by the sidewalk while he pulls away and vanishes around the corner before she starts heading in the direction of the party. As she walks, she notices just how cold it has gotten outside, and she tucks her arms around herself for warmth. 

 

When she makes it inside ‒ where it’s toasty and warm ‒ she’s overwhelmed by the amount of people there. Mostly, it’s a sea of unfamiliar faces, a lot of the older students hanging about here and there. She squares her shoulders, not listening to the voice in the back of her head, and pushes forward. She came here tonight for a reason, and she isn’t going to give up just because of some voice ‒҅ that sounded a lot like her father ‒ telling her that this is a bad idea. 

 

She spends most of the night standing near a wall, watching everyone else have a good time, until, that is, someone passes her a drink. Abigail told herself that she wasn’t going to drink, so she leaves the cup untouched on a table. She knows the law, and has heard many lectures about the dangers of underage drinking from her father. She holds strong with her decision until someone comes up to her and asks if she wants a drink. For the first time all night, someone has paid attention to her. She discovers that she isn’t so invisible when there’s a bottle in her hand. 

 

So she drinks and keeps drinking until she’s laughing along with some strangers. She even manages to strike up a conversation with one of the most popular girls in school. Abigail doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore, and with the alcohol warming her insides, she doesn’t feel nervous when talking with people. 

 

Who knew alcohol was the key to making friends. 

 

After a while and after so many drinks later, she discovers that alcohol has more side effects than making it easier to draw in friends. It has an opposite effect as well. Her stomach starts rolling with nausea and sweat sticks to her forehead. She doesn’t feel too well, and suddenly the crowd she had immersed herself in is gone. 

 

She stumbles outside, and the cold air helps cut through the fog that settles around her head. She’s made a mistake. Coming here tonight was a very  _ big  _ mistake. There’s no way her father can see her in this state, not without her being grounded for the rest of her life. At this point, Abigail doesn’t even care about getting grounded; she doesn’t want to face her father’s disappointment, not after seeing how proud he was of her earlier.

 

Abigail tries to come up with a plan, hoping that maybe the fastest way to sober up is to walk in the cold for awhile. So that’s what she does. She doesn’t know how long she walks, but she knows she’s definitely not sober. She’s just sleepy and cold.

 

It’s growing darker outside, and now little snowflakes have begun to trickle down from the night sky. She stops after a while, shivering and looking around. It’s then that she realizes that she’s has no idea where she’s at. She doesn’t know this part of the city. However, before she can properly panic about being lost, her nausea returns full force, and she finds herself doubling over, vomiting on some street corner.

 

Feeling disoriented, she doesn’t hear the dark limo pulling up behind her. It’s only when someone starts rubbing her back that she realizes that she’s not alone anymore. A familiar voice sooths her before she can panic:

 

“Shh, don’t worry, Abigail. I’m here.”

 

Abigail coughs a few times, trying to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth. She’s too embarrassed to look Mr. Cobblepot in the eyes as he offers her a bottle of water. She takes a few sips, and leans against the building, trying to ignore the tremors shaking her body. Meanwhile, Oswald has a strong déjà vu feeling: about a decade prior, it was Jim who needed assistance after he tried to wipe the horrific images of a massacre with way too much alcohol.

 

“Thank you,” she says in a quivering voice, and tears are already spilling out.

 

“It’s alright.”

 

Abigail shakes her head, but she opens her eyes when she hears the swish of fabric. Mr. Cobblepot takes off his indigo coat, and then puts it around her shoulders. The gesture just makes Abigail sob harder, but Mr. Cobblepot takes her arm, and gently guides her to the limo. It’s pleasantly warm inside, and Abigail takes gratefully the handkerchief Mr. Cobblepot offers her. She only notices that it’s a monogrammed handkerchief after she already blew her nose in it, and feels even more embarrassed.

 

After a few minutes when they just sit in silence, watching the snowflakes in the bright city lights, Mr. Cobblepot finally asks her: “What were you doing in this part of the city?”

 

“I… uh, didn’t feel well at the party,” Abigail starts, not saying why, because she’s sure Mr. Cobblepot can feel the stench of alcohol on her.”I thought the cold air would help me, so I started walking, and I found myself here.”

 

There’s no lecture or scolding coming from Mr. Cobblepot; in fact, he’s not even giving off any anger or disappointment, and Abigail is immeasurably grateful for that, knowing that her father won’t be so forgiving. Because of course they are heading towards the Gordon house ‒ there must be some kind of unspoken agreement between Mr. Cobblepot and her father.

 

“I thought you wanted to go to this party to dance and have fun with your friends.”

 

Abigail snorts at the last word, but then realizes that Mr. Cobblepot could interpret it as her making fun of his naive assumption. “Yes, that was the plan, I just… well, I don’t really have friends. I don’t have any,” she adds quietly, and hugs herself, the coat’s soft fur brushing her neck. “I thought I could make some friends at the party, then someone gave me a drink, and…”

 

She doesn’t know if she’s welcome to do so, but Abigail buries her face in Oswald’s left shoulder, letting the expensive fabric of his suit absorb her tears. The gangster sits stiffly for a minute, then puts a gloved hand on her blonde head, petting it slowly, as if he’s never done it before.

 

“I didn’t have any friends while I was in school either,” Mr. Cobblepot says. “No one wants to be friends with the weird kid who’s bullied by everyone.”

 

Abigail sniffles. “Did they bully you because of your limp? They were assh-,” she remembers how the gangster doesn’t like curses, “they were astonishingly stupid.”

 

“No, no. I got the limp years later. I was just the odd, pale kid with a strange name, worn clothes, but much better grades than anyone in the school. I was basically a walking target.”

 

“You didn’t have any friends?  _ At all _ ?” Abigail asks, unaware of the warmth spreading through Mr. Cobblepot at the incredulity in her tone.

 

“Unless you count Schatzi, my cat, then no.”

 

“Well, I was right, they were stupid kids,” Abigail says, and Oswald resumes telling her stories with a smile.

 

They stay like that for another ten minutes, the surroundings now becoming familiar to Abigail. She thinks she ought to take advantage of the last peaceful moments. “Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. For everything that you’ve done for me.”

 

“Of course. You know what, I think there’s something you could do for me.”

 

“Really? What is it?” Abigail asks, her hold on the man’s arm tightening.

 

“You should start calling me Oswald.”

 

“O-okay, Oswald,” Abigail says, feeling very privileged.

 

Her good mood dissipates soon, however, as the car stops in front of her house. She thinks about asking Mr. Cobblepot,  _ Oswald _ , to maybe accompany her, but the gangster is already there by her side, ushering her gently to the door. It is only as she rings the door that Abigail realizes the mistake of having the gangster beside her: her father knows absolutely nothing of their blooming friendship. Before she can think of a plan to send Oswald away, her father’s voice becomes louder as he comes to the door.

 

“You’re lucky you got here before eleven, missy, your curfew is almost over…”

 

Jim trails off, his eyes widening when he takes in Abigail’s tear-stained cheeks and disheveled appearance, gaze hardening when he notices his daughter’s companion. He pulls them both in forcefully, probably to avoid the scandal being heard by the entire neighborhood, and Abigail knows she’ll start crying again soon.

 

“Go to the bathroom, and clean up,” Jim tells Abigail with a grave voice. “We’ll talk later.”

 

Abigail barely makes a step when her father is already shouting at Oswald, his voice thunderous: “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING WITH HER?!”

 

“Dad…”

 

“I know you like hitting people in their weakest spot, but this…”

 

Jim pushes Oswald against a wall, his hands tightening around Oswald’s lapels. Abigail feels sick at Oswald being shouted at and blamed for something she did, when all he’s ever done was to help her. But neither Oswald, nor her dad spare her another look, as if they are mesmerized by each other’s defiant glares.

 

“Dad!” Abigail shouts then, trying to cover her father’s voice. “Stop!”

 

“I said go to the bathroom…”

 

“Leave Oswald alone, he’s done nothing wrong!” Abigail’s voice shakes, but she holds her ground. 

 

This causes Jim to finally look back at his daughter, but his tight grip on Oswald stays. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Abigail.

 

“This man is dangerous.” He turns, making direct eye contact with Oswald as he speaks, “Whatever he has convinced you of isn’t true. He’s a liar.”

 

Abigail can see indignation flare behind Oswald’s eyes, yet he remains silent, listening to Jim’s cutting words about his character. She can’t help but notice how greatly it differs from Oswald’s assessment of her dad. 

 

She knows that it must pain Oswald to hear these words coming from someone he loves, and it’s all her fault that he’s in this situation in the first place. She can’t stand back and watch any longer.

 

Abigail steps forward, placing her hand on her father’s arm, feeling the tense muscles start to unstiffen. “Dad… please… It’s not what you think. Oswald helped me. I… I got too drunk at the party tonight, and he found me, and drove me back home.” 

 

Finally, her words seem to get through to her father. Jim’s gaze falls to the coat wrapped around Abigail, and he realizes that it has to be the criminal’s. He quickly lets go of Oswald, but he doesn’t move an inch, remains in Oswald’s space. There’s still too much left unanswered.

 

Abigail squeezes her eyes shut, still feeling woozy from the effects of the alcohol, but mostly at what she’s about to say, knowing that Oswald isn’t going to want to be her friend anymore when she does. 

 

“I lied,” she confesses. “I’ve haven’t been going to the library after school… I’ve been going to Oswald’s. He’s been helping me with my school essay.

 

“That’s also the reason why my grades are improving. Oswald has been helping me after school with my homework.” She explains. “I swear he didn’t know, dad! I lied and told him that you said it was okay for me to go there.”

 

When she opens her eyes, she finds that Oswald’s expression hasn’t changed ‒ he doesn’t look too surprised at her admission. It makes her wonder if he’d already guessed the truth the second time she showed up at his club, but she can’t be certain.

 

“I’m so sorry, Oswald. I shouldn’t have lied to you.” There’s a lump in her throat, making it hard to swallow. 

 

“It’s quite alright, Abigail.” Oswald’s whole face softens when he looks at her, and that’s all it takes for the tears from earlier to return, and she breaks down crying again. She’s so relieved that he doesn’t hate her for lying to him.

 

Jim takes her in his arms, and she sobs into his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She repeats over and over, until her father starts rubbing her back, and assures her that everything’s fine. 

 

When her tears starts to dry and she’s left sniffing, Jim leans back, wiping under one of her eyes, collecting a tear with his thumb. “Go get cleaned up, it’s been a long night, and you need some rest. Time for bed.”

 

She nods, this time not arguing with her father. As she begins to head up the stairs, her father calls out to her, “Don’t think we won’t be discussing this tomorrow.”

 

Abigail grimaces, but accepts it: she knows the truth about Oswald was bound to get out eventually, and there still the matter of her getting drunk that her father probably didn’t take to kindly either. 

 

Jim shakes his head as he watches Abigail climb the stairs. He drops onto the couch, rubbing his forehead with his hand. Oswald stands there, unsure what to do. A part of him thinks it would be best if he leaves, fearing he’d only make matters worse; but seeing Jim like this tugs at the strings in his chest, and once more he finds himself pulling closer to the commissioner, wanting to comfort Jim. 

 

He takes a seat, making sure to keep his distance. He rolls his shoulder, wincing, soreness already setting in from where his back was slammed up against the wall. Oswald thinks he’s getting too old for this. 

 

“Seems like old habits die hard.” Oswald breaks the silence, “You can’t resist shoving me against a wall, can you?” 

 

Jim doesn’t say anything for a while. When he finally does, it’s not what Oswald expects: 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“Two apologies from the Gordons in the same night?  My, my, aren’t I lucky.” 

 

Jim frowns, but doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t react to Oswald’s attempt at getting a rise out of him. Of course, Oswald hates to see Jim suffering like this, but his harsh words from earlier still sting, and a part of him wants to lash out. He didn’t while Abigail was still in the room, not wanting her to see this side of him or her father. There’s too much between them, too many things left unsaid, tension still lingering from the past, and now when they’re around one another, they’re constantly at each other's throats.

 

Instead of retorting, Jim lets out a loud sigh, dropping his hand and collapsing back against the coach.  _ He looks exhausted _ , Oswald thinks.

 

“Thank you.” 

 

All that pent up anger at Jim disappears, and Oswald is left speechless at the fact that Jim’s thanking him. He knows Jim Gordon, and Jim Gordon has never thanked him in all the times he’s known him.

 

“What you did for Abigail… I’m not talking just about tonight either, even though what she did was completely reckless, and if anyone else had found her-” Jim cuts off, not wanting to finish that sentence. 

 

“I should have been paying more attention, should have realized just how much she was struggling with school. I know that I’m not home enough… maybe if I was, she could have gone to her dad for help…”

 

“Jim.” Oswald covers Jim’s hand resting on his knee. “Do not blame yourself for this. You are a great father, and you have raised Abigail to be a wonderful girl.” 

 

His breath catches as Jim meets his stare, gazing at him with such an intense expression, one he hasn’t seen in awhile. His heart starts to race, remembering similar feelings from past encounters.

 

“Besides, I don’t believe there’s anything you could have done to prevent this. She’s stubborn, almost as much as you are,” Oswald teases, shifting the heavy atmosphere to a lighter one. 

 

He’s not sure how much he can handle Jim looking at him like that. He’s afraid of losing control of himself under Jim’s gaze, and possibly kissing the man right then and there.This is the first time in a very long time that they’ve sit down like this, and Oswald doesn’t want to ruin it.

 

“Dad, Oswald’s still here?” A voice asks, echoing from the top of the stairs. 

 

Immediately, Oswald returns his hand back to his own lap after hearing the patter of Abigail’s feet coming down the steps. . 

 

Jim stands from the couch, “What are you still doing up?” 

 

Abigail’s long blonde hair is still damp from the shower; she looks to be in a much better shape than what Oswald found her in earlier the night. “I wanted to tell Oswald goodnight.” She explains.

 

It catches Oswald off-guard. He’s not used to this, someone wishing him goodnight ‒ someone even wanting to, to begin with. She quickly crosses the room before Jim could have a chance to make any objections about her request. Before Oswald knows it, the young girl is squeezing him tightly in an embrace. He goes tense, shoulders stiffening, clearly not used to this show of affection. 

 

“Thank you, Ozzie.” Abigail whispers a bit drowsily, and a rush of warmth burst in Oswald’s chest. “Good night.”

 

“Good night, Abigail.” Is all he manages to get out, voice thick with emotion. 

 

When she finally lets go at Jim’s insistence that she needs to go to bed, she kisses her father’s cheek, and sends a small wave to the gangster before climbing up the stairs again.

 

Oswald swallows, still reeling from the night’s events, as he stands to take his leave. He realizes after tonight just how much Abigail means to him. He vows that he will always protect her, whatever the cost may be. 

 

He clears his throat, “Right. I should go...”

 

Jim follows Oswald to the door, holding it out for him. Once Oswald crosses the threshold, Jim stands and waits, leaning inside the doorway, watching him closely. 

 

Oswald is unsure whether to speak, nothing coming to the surface, so he waits for Jim to break the silence. It seems like Jim doesn’t wish to say anything either, and it’s too cold for Oswald to stand out there waiting, so he turns around. 

 

“Wait!” Jim calls out before Oswald even reaches the porch steps. “Your coat. Abigail still has it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing to wake up the poor girl over...” Oswald trails off, an idea forming in his head. 

 

“Perhaps… one day… you two can return it to me back at my club?” He asks, trying not to let hope color his voice. 

  
Jim’s silent for a minute, before he finally nods, “Alright… Good night, Oswald.” He quietly tells him before he shuts the door, and Oswald finds himself smiling for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter! The prompts from the bingo card in this chapter include: 'decorating' and 'Christmas tree'. Hope you all enjoy and happy holidays! :)
> 
> Huge thank you to Nekomata58919 for the beta!

The next morning, Abigail wakes up with a nasty headache ‒ now she understands why hungover people are always complaining in movies. She dresses up, part of her hoping that her father is at the precinct, but the moment she opens her door, the smell of bacon and eggs hits her. Well, at least they are going to have a delicious, though awkward breakfast.

 

“Morning,” Abigail greets her father shyly.

 

“Hi. There’s some aspirin on the table for your headache,” Jim says, as he flips some eggs.

 

Abigail is about to ask how did he know, but then her father adds: “Unfortunately, I know too well what alcohol does. I hope this was a good enough lesson for you not to drink in the future. Especially since you’re a minor. What were those people thinking at the party?! What were  _ you  _ thinking anyway?”

 

“I swear, I didn’t go with the intention to drink,” Abigail starts, looking at her plate instead of her father’s searching eyes. “Just wanted to meet some people. I feel like an alien in the new school. But then a guy gave me a bottle and… I guess the others were there to get drunk.”

 

Jim sighs. “Please don’t ever do that, okay? Underage drinking is not cool, it’s dangerous. Who knows what would have happened if Oswald hadn’t found you?”

 

Abigail has trouble swallowing her piece of toast.

 

“Oh, and Oswald is a completely different topic. You’ve been going to him behind my back for weeks?! Abigail, I think I told you that you absolutely  _ cannot  _ trust him.”

 

Abigail watches pain flash through her dad’s eyes, as if he’s experienced that on his own… which he probably has, though Abigail can’t imagine what it could have been about.

 

“He’s been incredibly nice, though. He not only helped me with the essay, but with homework too. He explains things so much better than any of my teachers. He’s probably also a million times smarter than any of them.”

 

Her father’s forehead smoothens at those words. “He didn’t ask for anything in return?”

 

Abigail thinks about the initial questions about her family, but she decides that those were just to establish their relationship, to see if she was trustworthy. “No. He could have sent me away so many times, and I probably annoyed him more than once, but he was always patient and helpful. He also makes the best hot cocoa.”

 

“Excuse me, I thought I make the best one!” Jim exclaims, mock hurt in his tone.

 

“Well, you’ve got competition,” Abigail says, glad that the heavy atmosphere has changed. She digs into her breakfast, her father sipping his coffee silently.

 

“I hope you’re aware that you’re grounded.”

 

“I know,” Abigail sighs.

 

“That includes going to Oswald’s too.  _ Especially  _ that,” Jim says gravely.

 

Abigail remembers the indigo coat the gangster borrowed her, currently lying on her chair. “But dad! I still have his coat! I have to go and give it back to him.”

 

“No, you don’t  _ have to _ ,” Jim says as he gathers their plates. “You’re grounded. That means you’re coming directly home from school. No more visits or secret meetings. I’ll find out if you try to contact him. Also, I can give the coat back to him.”

 

“You need to have it cleaned, though.”

 

“Right,” Jim says, without too much conviction. “You’re also washing the dishes for a month as part of your punishment.

 

“Ugh, dad, you know how much I hate washing up!” Abigail complains, but reaches for the sponge anyway.

 

“Maybe that will make you think twice before you drink next time!”

 

Abigail sighs once more, letting water from the sink’s faucet run over the sponge. While she’s certainly learnt her lesson, still there’s a part of her that’s curious, and maybe it’s in her DNA ‒ the fact that’s she’s Jim Gordon’s daughter ‒ that her curiosity always wins out. She can’t forget the interaction between Oswald and her father. She’s never seen her father like that; even when witnessing her parents argue during rare family outings ‒ when they fought there was more indifference than actual anger. Last night, seeing her dad and Oswald fight was different; it was heated and vehement, and the way they seemed to become lost in one another ‒ disappearing in the past ‒ convinces Abigail that her father has strong feelings towards Oswald.

 

What those feelings are exactly, she’s not sure, but she can’t help but lean towards the idea that maybe Oswald’s feelings for her dad aren’t as unrequited as she previously thought. Once things calmed down, her dad didn’t kick Oswald out immediately. She found them sitting on the couch together ‒ she seemingly interrupted something by the way they were both staring at each other. 

 

Abigail only has theories ‒ no actual proof other than guesses ‒ and there’s only one way to prove her suspicions: she needs to convince her father to let her return to Oswald’s. Then she would be able gather more evidence about the nature of their relationship. She just doesn’t know how to persuade her father. 

 

History, Jim thinks, has a way of repeating itself. There was a time in Jim’s life where a man with a limp and funny looking hair was the source of all his problems. It seems once again Oswald Cobblepot has wiggled his way back into his life. Jim knows he can’t lay all the blame on Oswald ‒ his daughter certainly played a role in this mess. He has to wonder, though, whether maybe it doesn’t matter who was to be blamed; that maybe this was fate, that he and Oswald are bound together by some invisible magnetic force ‒ forever drawn back to each other. 

 

Still, he’s left with one little problem: a fancy indigo coat resting on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, staring back at him. Abigail placed it there to remind him that he needs to return it to the criminal. Not that she doesn’t remind him every day when she finds the coat still hanging there, untouched.

 

“It’s getting colder outside, Dad!” Her face filled with worry, actual concern. “What if Oswald freezes to death?!”

 

Jim rolls his eyes the first time he hears it, “You do realize that Oswald has enough money to buy a whole closet filled with new coats, right?” 

 

Abigail pouts, and it’s clear to Jim how much the gangster’s personality has rubbed off on her after spending so much time with Oswald.

 

Regardless of Abigail’s relentless reminding, Jim still can’t bring himself to deliver the jacket. He manages to get the coat into his car and get halfway to Oswald’s club before he turns around and heads to work instead.

 

Harvey notices the jacket immediately, sprawled out in the backseat, when Jim picks Harvey up one day for work. Jim’s met with a familiar grin, “Didn’t know you like to wear fur, Jimbo. After all these years, you’re still surprising me.” 

 

“It’s not mine.”

 

“Ooh-”

 

“It’s not like that.” Jim quickly cuts off Harvey’s trail of thought. He hesitates about telling him who the jacket actually belongs to, but in the end he does, even though he’s unsure whether that’s a good idea. He explains, telling him the whole story about Abigail sneaking off to Oswald’s, the party and Oswald being the one to bring her back home. 

 

“And you’re avoiding returning Penguin’s jacket to him because...?” 

 

Jim doesn’t have an answer. 

 

That’s how Oswald’s coat finds itself back inside Jim’s kitchen. For some reason, Jim’s unable to face Oswald now. He’s unable to get Oswald’s actions out of his mind. He saved Jim’s daughter from a potential terrible fate. He had the control, held all of the cards that night, could have kidnapped Abigail to control the Commissioner of Gotham, but he didn’t. Instead, he brought her straight home. 

 

There has to be a catch. Jim knows Oswald, he knows how he works, and he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Oswald to hold this against him and use it to milk another favor from him.

 

He stays conflicted, especially after Abigail returns home from school on Monday. He took the day off work, a rarity, to ensure that Abigail went straight home after school. Other than the all too knowing look she gives him when she spots the jacket still in its newfound place, she doesn’t appear to be as happy as she has been the past few weeks coming home. 

 

The trend continues, and Jim can see Abigail is growing more despondent each day after school. He knows he has to do something about this ‒ maybe if he just waits it out then Abigail will forget all about her friendship with the mobster. But of course, that doesn’t happen, and Jim’s mind is made up when she comes home one afternoon, bearing her essay result, all smiling.

 

She passed her class. Oswald helped her, and Jim’s not positive what Oswald’s end game here is, but he knows that Oswald has surprisingly been a positive influence on his daughter, has made her life easier, and not asked for anything in return. For now, at least.

 

Jim lets out a sigh, “Alright, grab the coat. I’m sure Oswald would like to know what you got on your essay as well...”

 

He has to bite his lip not to chuckle at Abigail’s reaction, her head snapping up so fast that he’s worried she might have strained a muscle. 

 

She stops, eyes lit up, “Seriously?!”

 

He nods and stumbles back a little at the force of Abigail’s launching herself over to hug him.

 

“We’re going to need to lay down some serious ground rules if you’re going to keep visiting Oswald.”

 

Abigail nods enthusiastically; she’ll accept anything if it means that she can meet Oswald again.

 

“You must always inform me when you go to him,” Jim starts. “I’ll find out if you try to sneak behind my back.”

 

“Okay, got it,” Abigail bows her head under her father’s scrutiny.

 

“You must never talk about my work.  _ Ever _ .”

 

“Dad, seriously, we have better things to talk about.”

 

“ _ Abigail _ .”

 

“No chit chat about your work. Got it,” Abigail answers, desperate to get out of the house and be on their way. “Anything else?”

 

Jim takes his keys and Oswald’s coat, and shakes his head as he locks the door. “Just… be careful with him, okay? Don’t tell him very personal things.”

 

The moment Jim parks in front of the Iceberg Lounge, Abigail shoots out of the car and into the building like a rocket, leaving Jim alone. He strokes his mustache for a few seconds, then with a determined sigh gets out, takes the indigo coat from the backseat, and strolls into the club.

 

Oswald and Abigail seem to be in the middle of a hug, and Jim stops in his tracks. Something aches in his chest at the sight of Oswald’s expression: he looks genuinely content by Abigail’s embrace. He then opens his eyes, and if possible, they become even brighter when he takes in the Commissioner standing in his doorway.

 

“Jim! What a surprise!”

 

“Hello, Oswald.”

 

Abigail can basically feel Oswald’s arm tremble around her shoulder when he notices her father enter the club. She squeezes his hand encouragingly as her dad gets closer, Oswald’s coat draped around his arm.

 

“Uhh… here’s your coat.”

 

“Thank you so much. To both of you,” Oswald says, turning his eyes to Abigail.

 

“Abigail was afraid you’d freeze to death.”

 

Oswald snorts, and Abigail watches as the sound elicits the slight upcurve of her father’s mouth, but he soon schools his expression. “Why don’t you show Oswald that essay you got back?”

 

“Ah, right, I almost forgot!” Abigail chirps, and fishes for the paper in her bag. “Ta-dah!”

 

Oswald’s eyes widen at the sight of the A+. “Congratulations, Abigail!”

 

“Thank you! I couldn’t have done it without you,” Abigail says, and they are grinning at each other.

 

Jim’s lips are a straight line, and his eyes narrow at the sight. Oswald does look genuinely happy, but then again, he’s fooled Jim so many times before, why wouldn’t he do it now? Is he even sane to let Abigail visit him?! Their closeness perturbs Jim’s peace, so he clears his throat to get their attention.

 

“Oh, I’m being such a bad host! What can I get you to drink?” Oswald asks, going behind the counter.

 

“Do you still have that amazing hot cocoa?” Abigail asks, sitting down on a chair, looking expectantly at the one next to her and then at her father.

 

“Of course. What about you, Jim? I just received a bottle of this fantastic whiskey…”

 

“No, I…” Jim looks at Oswald’s hopeful expression, and panic wells inside him, his heart beating faster. “I must go to work.”

 

“Oh, of course. A coffee then.”

 

“No… I really can’t stay. Abigail, you shouldn’t bother Oswald too much either. Call me when you get home,” Jim adds hastily.

 

“Don’t worry, she’s not bothering me, Jim. T-thank you for your visit,” Oswald smiles when Jim nods.

 

Oswald can’t wipe the dreamy expression from his face as he turns to Abigail, who is grinning deviously.

 

“What?” he asks with a scowl, and quickly turns away to prepare Abigail’s cocoa.

 

“Don’t worry, Ozzie, your secret is safe with me,” Abigail says, but changes the topic quickly when she notices how embarrassed the man is.

 

During her next visits, Abigail doesn’t bring up the topic, even though she’s dying of curiosity. Back home, her father often tries to ask masked questions, when really, Abigail figured out from the first moment that all he wants to hear about is Oswald. Abigail sees his frustrations when she doesn’t give exhaustive answers, and she usually just tells her dad to visit himself if he wants more details, but so far he’s never showed up. Unlike Oswald, who takes her suggestions very seriously. 

 

A few days ago, Abigail told him that he should decorate the Lounge for Christmas. 

 

“Well, I’ve never really done it before, but you’re right, perhaps it needs some holiday cheer.”

 

So when Abigail walks into Oswald’s club the next time, she finds the gangster guiding two of his brawny men who are carrying a huge Christmas tree. Abigail’s a bit speechless at the several boxes filled with Christmas decorations lining the bar counter. She really wasn’t expecting Oswald to go to this extreme when she offered up the idea of decorating, thinking that he was merely humoring her.

 

“Ah, Abigail!” Oswald grins when he turns and spots her, “Perfect timing!”

 

Abigail stumbles forward, slightly in a daze, eyeing the rows of boxes again. She has to wonder where did Oswald even get all these decorations? 

 

“I thought perhaps we could decorate together? I’m not as young as I used to be and well -” Oswald looks down at his injured leg as an explanation. “So what do you say?”

 

“Yeah, of course!” 

 

They start on the Christmas tree first. They spend the first ten minutes picking out the decorations they want to place on the tree. During this process, Abigail’s mind starts to wander, and her curiosity returns. She doesn’t know if Oswald will answer her questions or not, but he seems to be in a good mood. Still, she decides to wait until they got the lights untangled, and all the ornaments are out and waiting to be strung up.

 

She tries to keep her tone neutral, “Dad told me that he used to come to you for help with cases. Is that true?”

 

Oswald drops the cord from his hands, his mouth gaped open, “Jim told you that?!”

 

Abigail pauses, not expecting such a strong reaction from the mobster. Intrigue has its claws sunk into her now, and there’s no way she can just let this go. She answers honestly, afraid that Oswald would abruptly switch the subject if he caught her in a lie.

 

“Well, not exactly, I overheard him and Uncle Harvey talking about it.”

 

She notices the frown starting to form on Oswald’s face at the mention of Harvey. Seems like there’s mutual dislike for both parties on that front. Although Abigail isn’t too surprised about that. 

 

Oswald bends, grabbing the string of lights again. When he straightens, he holds the bundle of cords out for Abigail to take its end. 

 

She begins to wrap the lights around the tree, waiting for Oswald to speak. She’s worried she might have ruined his mood, but the fact that they’re still decorating and he hasn’t kicked her out tells her otherwise. 

 

“Did I ever tell you that your father saved my life?” Oswald suddenly asks after a few minutes of silence and Abigail startles, almost loses her balance on the chair she’s standing on, until a firm hand presses between her shoulder blades. 

 

“Careful.” 

 

Abigail nods, finishing wrapping the top of the tree. Oswald holds out his hand for Abigail to take as she steps down. “You mentioned that he spared your life at the docks.”

 

“That was the first of many encounters,” he explains. “Your father has saved my life on countless occasions.”

 

“I always tried to return the favor.” Abigail can hear the smile in Oswald’s voice, even though he has his back to her. “There was always the chance too, since your father is about as stubborn as he is determined ‒ trying to take down any corrupt official, despite how dangerous it was…”

 

Abigail sits with her elbows on her knees, hands framing each side of her face, listening enraptured. 

 

“Your father and I had sort of an… arrangement. Nothing that would have compromised his integrity,” Oswald quickly adds, turning around to face her. “Most of the time, it was me giving him information for a case he was working on.”

 

His eyebrows knit together as the frown returns. “I… I supposed I was the least worst option for him to go to for help…”

 

“It’s probably ‘cause he likes you,” Abigail blurts out and her eyes widen as she realizes what she just said.

 

Oswald’s head snaps up, “Excuse me?”

 

This is the first time Abigail has ever felt unnerved in the presence of Oswald Cobblepot, his unwavering stare fixed on her. 

 

She swallows, finding her confidence, “Well… I mean, he definitely has a thing for you.” 

 

Abigail doesn’t think she’s seen anyone turn this bright shade of pink before. The gangster ‒ usually full of poise and always having a retort ready at hand ‒ is spluttering, unable to form proper words.

 

For a good solid minute, Abigail is concerned that she might have broken the mobster.

 

“Jim Gordon does not have a  _ thing  _ for me!” Oswald finally chokes out. “Your father barely tolerates me!”

 

“Right and that’s why he’s always asking about you when I get home.” 

 

That catches Oswald’s attention, “What? He asks about me?”

 

“Constantly.” Abigail smiles knowingly, “Do you believe me now?”

 

Oswald quickly realizes his mistake of asking, revealing that he considered the possibility for a split second. He shakes his head, “No. I don’t know where you got this insane notion from,  _ young lady _ , but I assure you that is not the case.”

 

Abigail knows a losing battle when she sees one, and convincing Oswald that her dad likes him was a losing battle. She’s disappointed, but drops the subject. They go back to decorating, and that takes up most of her visit, given the abundance of decorations. After a while, Oswald excuses himself, tells her that he has to quickly look over some paperwork, forgetting his cane resting on the bar.

 

Abigail finds a ribbon in one of the many boxes, and as soon as the gangster disappears from sight, she quickly ties a bright red bow onto Oswald’s cane.

 

She distracts herself by continuing hanging paper snowflakes around the club. She focuses on her task when she hears the entrance door slam shut. Glancing up, she sees her dad standing there with a look of uncertainty fixed on his face.  

 

“Dad!” Abigail grins; she has been hoping her father would listen to her suggestion of stopping by. 

 

“You and Oswald have been busy,” Jim glances around, hands on his hips. 

 

“Abigail? Are you alright? I heard voices…” Oswald comes rushing out of his office, his glasses askew. He stops short when he sees Jim, a blush suddenly spreading on his cheeks. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Jim. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming.”

 

“I had some things to do in this area, thought I’d check if Abigail was still here,” Jim replies, almost mindlessly, for he’s been staring at Oswald’s face from the moment he stepped out of his office. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

 

Oswald has to look down, Jim’s gaze too intense. “Yes, for reading. My vision’s worsened with the years, I’m afraid.”

 

“You look good, though. They suit you,” Jim blurts out, and Abigail turns immediately to Oswald with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look. Jim doesn’t miss the conspiratorial look his daughter and the gangster exchange.

 

“T-thank you,” Oswald stammers as he finally looks away from Abigail and into Jim’s wide eyes, both men incredulous that the words have actually been uttered. “Have you seen my -? Oh, there it is!”

 

Oswald limps to the counter, lifting the cane. He raises his eyebrows comically, which makes Abigail giggle even harder at her mischief. 

 

“I suppose Abigail found your cane too simple,” Jim declares with a lopsided smile.

 

Oswald checks his cane and tries it out, as if the bow made it brand new. “Indeed, this is an enormous improvement. I feel ready for Christmas now.”

 

“The club looks nice as well,” Jim says, looking around appreciatively. “Very cozy.”

 

“It was Abigail’s idea. I haven’t really celebrated for some years, so I never bothered with decorating, but it does breathe new life into the place,” Oswald replies, happy to have a normal conversation with Jim.

 

“Perhaps I should ask her to decorate the precinct too, maybe then it wouldn’t be so depressing,” Jim squeezes Abigail’s shoulder. “So, are you finished? Do you want to come home with me?”

 

“Oh, yes, unless you need me for something else, Oswald?” Abigail looks at the crimelord.

 

“Oh no, we’re finished. Go and do something fun with your dad,” Oswald almost shoos them outside, but not before he and Abigail kiss each others’ cheeks, Jim watching the ritual with quite some fascination.

 

“Thank you for your help, Abigail, and thank you for dropping by, Jim. You’re both welcome any time,” Oswald says from the door as he watches the Gordons get into their car.

 

Jim nods distractedly, his thoughts lingering on the growing familiarity between his daughter and the gangster. Abigail looks cheerful, even humming to the song playing on the radio, so Jim looks at her a few times before from the corner of his eye, afraid that his questions will ruin her good mood.

 

“So… you and Oswald are good friends, huh?”

 

“Yep, he’s really nice,” Abigail answers.

 

“Back there, it looked like you two have secrets,” Jim says each word carefully, and looks at his daughter just in time to notice her embarrassment.

 

“Ah, oh, it’s nothing, dad, you don’t have to worry about it.”

 

Jim hums; he hopes that the thing Abigail can’t tell him is some silly crush at school. He really doesn’t want to be nosy, though he can’t help, but be worried.

 

“Darling… you haven’t told him anything too personal, right? Remember my advice.”

 

“Dad, please. Don’t worry, okay? That thing wasn’t even about me,” Abigail pleads, wiping her palms against her jeans, looking panicked that he might ask more intrusive questions.

 

“Alright, alright. But please let me know if something doesn’t feel right, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Abigail looks relieved to drop the topic.

 

“How about we get some pizza from Gino’s?” Jim suggests, and the enthusiastic answer he gets makes him smile.

 

Nevertheless, he can’t shake off the dark suspicions growing inside him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! We hope you had a lovely Christmas - here's the new chapter, hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As always, we're happy to hear your opinions. :)
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to recuerdoshbp on tumblr, we have [fanart for a scene from Chapter 1](http://recuerdoshbp.tumblr.com/post/154869874919/another-fiction-that-i-give-attention-i-like). Many thanks also to [theartofthemstr for imagining what Oswald looks like in Chapter 4](http://theartofthemstr.tumblr.com/post/154954854265/done-for-the-expressions-meme-i-found-by-soupery) when Abigail tells him that Jim still has feelings for him.

Jim has a bad feeling about this. All his years as a detective taught him one thing: never ignore your gut feeling. He wants to give Oswald the benefit of the doubt ‒ for Abigail’s sake ‒ wants to think that maybe allowing Abigail to make friends with the gangster isn’t going to be thrown back in his face. Jim used to have an optimistic outlook, but living in Gotham has slowly chipped away such idealism and left him more hardened, or in Jim’s opinion, more realistic about how things truly operate in this city. 

 

Trusting Oswald Cobblepot is about as dangerous as holding a grenade. Jim’s not sure just how long they have until the clock runs out and this situation they got themselves tangled up in blows up. 

 

Regardless of his suspicions, Jim doesn’t act. It’s best not to make a move when he doesn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet. Maybe he’s wrong about the whole thing… A couple of days prior, he went home during his lunch break to retrieve a document from his office. He peeked inside Abigail's room, his gaze landing on a piece of paper on the  desk. It was the famous essay his daughter wrote for the history class. Curiously, he took it with him, to read it later.

 

At the precinct, he slipped the essay inside a drawer, and took it out a few hours later when he finished his paperwork. His stomach clenched painfully, afraid of the things Cobblepot told about him to Abigail. What would his daughter think about him when she found out about all the illegal things he’d done throughout his career? Of course, he was forced by circumstances in most of the cases, but he’d done some terrible things out of his own volition. He couldn’t bear the thought of Abigail thinking less of him.

 

He needn't have worried, though. The essay is probably the cleanest, but at the same time most honest, account of the events. In fact, it depicts Jim in the best light, and the Commissioner gulps. He knows Abigail wrote the entire paper based on what Oswald told her, and it makes him wonder what the gangster wants to achieve with painting him in such a positive light. Because he's convinced that Penguin doesn’t think that about him, at least not anymore. Maybe there was a time when Oswald looked up at him, at the beginning of their acquaintance, but there’s been way too many things since then. He decides to keep his eyes peeled from then on.

 

His chance to uncover more pieces of the puzzle comes one day while he and Abigail are sitting on the couch, watching television. Abigail picked out some show; Jim has heard her rave about it before, but he’s not watching it too closely. Instead, he’s just enjoying the time off from work and being able to spend it with his daughter.

 

Abigail is slapping his arm, “Pay attention to this upcoming scene, dad! It’s the most important in the series.” 

 

He chuckles at her enthusiasm, “Wait, you’ve already seen this episode before?” 

 

She shoots him a look of ‘are you seriously asking me that?’. Abigail’s mouth starts to open, looking like she’s about to go into an hour-long explanation about said episode, but doesn’t get a chance to when her phone starts vibrating. Abigail frowns and pulls out her phone from her pocket before a wide grin comes across her face. 

 

She’s still smiling as she’s reading the text message, and Jim’s curiosity starts to stir. 

 

“Do you mind if I go to Oswald’s today?” Abigail asks, peering over her phone, eyes all wide and hopeful. 

 

Jim has to wonder when Abigail exchanged numbers with mobster. 

 

“I suppose so…” He frowns at how eagerly Abigail shoots up from her seat. “Didn’t you want to finish the show first?” Jim waves his hand in the direction of the television. 

 

Abigail shrugs, suddenly not interested in watching it any longer, and it dawns on Jim in that moment what Oswald’s doing. He’s slowly taking Abigail away from Jim; Oswald’s probably hoping he could turn her against him. Once the idea is planted, he can’t shake it. Would Oswald do that? He knows what the man’s capable of, and this certainly doesn’t make a dent in Oswald’s criminal reputation ‒ nothing compared to the things Oswald has done in the past. Still, he can’t be sure, and the only way to confirm his suspicions is to go and see for himself. 

 

“Why don’t I drive you, the roads are pretty icy out there.” Jim watches the way Abigail stops as she’s tugging on her coat. It’s the hesitation that catches his attention. Clearly, he thinks, she doesn’t want him there. Maybe Oswald’s plan is already working. 

 

She turns around, grinning, “You want to tag along?!” 

 

Jim narrows his eyes, trying to figure out if she is merely pretending wanting him to join her for his sake, and suddenly Jim feels like he’s been punched in the stomach for even considering that. He shakes his head, guilty for assuming Abigail would do something like that.  _ She’s not like Oswald. She’s not manipulative. _

 

This has gone too far, his constant worrying over what Oswald could be planning, it’s starting to affect him, but he still decides to go. He plans to get to the bottom of this once and for all, and if he’s right, then he has to confront Oswald.

 

It’s snowing when they arrive, and warmth hits them instantly when they step inside the club. It’s toasty and they’re soon shedding off layers of coats, gloves, and scarves. Oswald is nowhere in sight, and Jim and Abigail exchange looks before they hear loud barking, followed by sounds of laughter. 

 

Something pulls in Jim’s chest, hearing such a warm laugh from the gangster, but he ignores this feeling. 

 

“Alright, alright, I’ll feed you, you beast!” They hear Oswald as he enters from a back room.

 

His eyes are sparkling, a glint of amusement in them, when he looks up from the small, golden brown and black dog attached to the leash he’s holding. As soon as Abigail spots the dog, she lets out a small gasp, and in no time runs over there, already kneeling and cooing at the animal.

 

“I found him outside the club earlier, thought you would be interested in meeting him.” Oswald is smiling down at the pair. 

 

The sight of it bothers Jim, causing him to snap, “And you called Abigail over here without having any idea if it was safe or not for her to be around the dog?” 

 

Oswald looks stunned, and a hurt expression passes over his face, “O-Of course not. I made sure he was amiable. I would never place Abigail in such danger.” 

 

Feelings of contrition flood through Jim at his behavior and sharp tongue, but he won't let himself be manipulated again. He clenches his fists as he tries to force a polite tone onto his next words.

 

“Can we talk in a more private place?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Oswald answers, peering at him curiously. “Abigail, would you be so kind and feed our small guest? There's some dog food and toys behind the counter. Your dad and I have something to talk about.”

 

“Sure, no problem,” Abigail replies, not even looking at her dad and the gangster.

 

Oswald ushers Jim into his office, closing the door carefully. He looks with obvious confusion and perhaps also a bit of apprehension at the Commissioner, then points towards a decanter: “Something to drink?”

 

Jim’s patience is wearing thin, so he puts his hands on his hips, and decides to just be blunt: “Okay, Oswald, what’s your game here?”

 

“My game? What do you mean?”

 

“With Abigail. I knew you were shrewd, but please don't involve her in your campaign against me.”

 

“My campaign against you?! I assure you, Jim, that there’s no such thing. I’d never -”

 

“Stop lying, Oswald! We’ve known each other for over twenty years, at least respect that by not lying to my face,” Jim interrupts the criminal, his pulse quickening. 

 

Oswald’s features harden. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ve never lied to you.”

 

Jim lets out a derisive snorts.  “Give me a break. But anyway, just to refresh your memory, I'm referring to your attempts at ensnaring Abigail. Did you think I wouldn't notice that you’re trying to take her away from me?!”

 

Oswald is stunned. “You’re paranoid, Jim Gordon. I’m not taking her away from you, and perhaps if you paid more attention to her, you’d know that she’s clever enough to make her own decisions.”

 

“Oh, so now you’re accusing me that I’m not a good father!” Jim shouts, taking a step towards the mobster. “So what, you think you’d be a better one? Is that it?! What do you even know about kids, Oswald? Huh? About family and love?”

 

Oswald stumbles back at Jim’s words, like he has been slapped in the face. Betrayal colors his features before it disappears into a cold, hard mask. Oswald lets out a bitter laugh, the warmth from earlier is gone. 

 

“How foolish.” He starts in a clipped tone. “How foolish of me to think you were ever capable of seeing beyond your black and white thinking.” 

 

“You were never able to see anything more than criminal.” Oswald steps forward, gets right in Jim’s face. Jim can see he’s shaking, trembling with anger. 

 

“What am I supposed to think?” Jim refuses to stand there and listen to his character assassination. “How can I trust you after what happened the last time I decided to ‘look’ past your criminal side?”

 

“Oh, I see. This has nothing to do with your parenting insecurities-”

 

“Excuse me? My  _ parenting insecurities _ ?!” Jim repeats, furious at the gangster’s audacity. 

 

“This is about you jumping to conclusions yet again. Assuming the worst, just because I have blood on my hands. I’m not lying to you now, like I wasn’t lying to you then.”

 

Of course it came back to this. It always did. Years ago, Jim made the mistake of enlisting Cobblepot’s help with setting up a trap to capture the Riddler once and for all, but before they were able to do so, Nygma ran, went into hiding.

 

“Damnit, Oswald! You promised me you would help me catch him. You and I both know that someone must have tipped him off. Nobody at the precinct told him, and that just leaves one option: you. What, did Nygma smile at you and you went running back to him?”

 

And that’s all it takes for Oswald’s already shaky control over reining in his rage to fly right out the window, and suddenly they’re shouting at each other. Voices growing louder each passing second, insults are flung, and it becomes a competition to see who could yell louder, whose words could cut the deepest.

 

There’s a tentative knock at Oswald’s office door, and both Oswald and Jim go silent at the noise. 

 

“Dad? Oswald? Is… Is everything alright?” Abigail’s voice carries into the room.

 

Both men freeze, realizing that Abigail probably overheard their screaming match, and both look a bit ashamed at losing their temper around the young girl. 

 

“It’s alright, Abby,” Jim quickly assures her, muscles still tense, “there’s nothing to be worried about. Oswald and I are just talking.”

 

“Your father and I are merely arguing over what we’re going to name the dog… Isn’t that right, Jim?”

 

Jim snorts and he knows Abigail’s not going to buy that either, but he hears a small laugh outside the door, so Jim plays along. “Yeah, we’re having trouble settling on a name. Why don’t you give us a couple more minutes and then we’ll come up with a name all together, alright?” 

 

“Does that mean we can keep him?!” Abigail asks.

 

Stifling a groan, Jim replies, “Maybe, we’ll talk about it.”

 

Jim catches Oswald’s eyes, and neither one looks away until they hear footsteps leading away from the door. Once Abigail is completely out of hearing range, Oswald collapses back against his desk, suddenly exhausted. He rubs his forehead with one hand.

 

“I don’t know what else I have to do in order to prove that I’m not the monster you think I am…” He says wearily, clutching his cane. 

 

That’s when Jim notices that the red bow that Abigail tied on it is still wrapped around the cane, a bit crooked now, but nonetheless still attached to the walking stick. Jim would have thought that Oswald would have thrown away the ribbon as soon as Abigail left that day, but he hadn’t. 

 

“I… I don’t know what to think.” Jim’s throat aches from shouting so much earlier. Now that he’s talking more quietly, the pain begins to become more noticeable. “I read Abigail’s essay.”

 

“Did you find it to your liking?” Oswald asks quietly.

 

“It… it wasn’t what I expected. I thought you’d tell her about… all the bad things I’ve done,” Jim takes a shaky breath. “Why haven’t you? There’s a whole list: Galavan, leaving you in Arkham… and so on.”

 

Oswald looks at Jim as if he were stupid. “Why would I? I could never do that to you, Jim. Despite those things, you  _ are  _ a hero, and I don’t wish for Abigail to see you in a different light.”

 

That’s the moment Jim knows. Oswald has let go of the mask, opening himself up to him, his eyes holding nothing but genuine admiration and sincerity. The Commissioner can’t stop himself before he reaches out for the gangster’s hand.

 

“Do you still think that? That I’m a hero?” Jim asks, unable to look away from Oswald. He thinks about how youthful he still looks, especially when he smiles and his whole face lights up.

 

“Of course,” Oswald glances at Jim’s hand clasping his, then gathering his own courage, he places his other hand on Jim’s cheek. “I always will.”

 

They would probably stay like that for an eternity, lost in memories and new sensations, but there’s barking outside, and they realize the intimacy of their position. They slowly let go of each other, but don’t step away.

 

“I know we can’t erase or forget the past, but let’s start with a clean slate?” Jim proposes, much to Oswald’s surprise.

 

“Yes, yes, of course. I apologize for all the things I said about you, I was just mad. You’re a wonderful father.”

 

“No, it’s me who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have accused you of anything. You’ve been nothing but kind to Abigail.”

 

The two men are reminded again by the outside world; there’s a loud clang in the club, followed by Abigail’s chiding.

 

“Bad puppy! Don’t do that again!”

 

“Let’s see what’s going on before Abigail and the dog destroy your club,” Jim sighs, but there’s amusement in his voice.

 

Abigail looks up at them as they emerge, and after a moment of assessing her dad’s and Oswald’s peaceful expressions, she smiles at them impishly. “So… you, uh, managed to settle on a name?”

 

“Oh uh… yes, it’s… uh, Oswald, what was it?” Jim deflects the question.

 

The gangster glares at Jim. “Well, what about Cookie?”

 

“Cookie…” Abigail repeats it slowly, like she’s testing the name out. Her eyes light up in almost a childlike wonder. “That’s perfect!”

 

Oswald looks relieved, and Jim wants to laugh because despite the cool collected expression, Jim can’t miss that familiar underlying panic in Oswald’s eyes. Jim had it when Abigail was first born, and even now on occasion the overwhelming feeling returns whenever his daughter throws him for a loop. Even though Jim used Oswald’s lack of experience with kids against him, he has to admit how impressed he was with how Oswald is with Abigail ‒ almost like he’s a natural when it comes to this sort of thing. 

 

Abigail clears her throat, and Jim realizes that for the past few seconds he’s been staring at Oswald. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the gangster fidgeting uneasily, and Jim wonders what’s got him so anxious.

 

“So can we?” Abigail’s voices draws his attention. 

 

“Sorry, Abby, what were you saying? I was thinking about work,” Jim lies, and he can tell no one in the room believes him for a second. 

 

“Can we keep him?” She ask him a second time. 

 

When Abigail first broached the subject earlier, Jim already made up his mind to tell her no ‒ that there was a thin possibility of them having enough time with his work and Abigail’s schoolwork to be able to properly take care of a pet. 

 

But Jim finds himself, much to his own surprise, nodding in agreement. “I suppose… but only if you’re ready for this kind of responsibility. Taking care of a dog is a big job, are you sure you’re up for this?”

 

Before he gets the sentence fully out, Abigail is already nodding her head enthusiastically.

 

“Alright, we can keep him then.”

 

Abigail squeals, and throws her arms around her dad, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

 

While Abigail is distracted, tying a miniature bell onto Cookie’s collar, Oswald pulls Jim aside. “I’m sorry if my actions inconvenience you in any way. I merely thought that Abigail would enjoy seeing the dog, I didn’t think that she would want to keep it as a pet.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Abigail’s been wanting a dog since she was eight years old. She’s older now, and can look after it herself.”

 

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Oswald starts, “Since I’m the reason Abigail crossed paths with the dog… Then perhaps I could watch him whenever you and Abigail go out of town or something of the sorts.” 

  
Jim smiles as he accepts Oswald’s offer of help without any hesitation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! We have a new chapter! The prompts from the bingo card in this chapter include: 'Christmas party' and 'Scarf'. Hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> Biggest thanks to Nekomata58919 for the beta!

Oswald Cobblepot has everything he’s ever wanted: money, fame, a kingdom to rule and an amazing fashion sense. Well, officially anyway. Because whenever he imagined owning these things, he also thought that there would be someone to share them with. A long time ago, he hoped it was Jim. Then, when it became clear that the detective didn’t want to do anything with him, he found a new friend.

 

He was convinced that this was it; Jim was just a passing crush and _he_ (Oswald doesn’t even want to think about his name) could take his place, actually step on the pedestal Oswald had built for him. But everything crumbled quicker than a sandcastle. The friend turned into an enemy in the blink of an eye.

 

During all this time, he refused to think about Jim, how his heart still started pounding faster even at the mere mention of his name. Jim flung himself headfirst into the war against The Riddler, hunting him and trying to back him against a corner, but the young man was more cunning than the GCPD, and the numbers of villains seemed to grow exponentially. The cops couldn’t deal with them anymore.

 

That was when Jim went to Oswald, asked for his help with the greatest humbleness Oswald had ever experienced. He realized in that moment that while his feelings for that ‘friend’ had long died, the ones for Jim had just been pushed to a forgotten compartment in his mind. Here was Jim, his savior, asking for his help in putting away for good his greatest enemy.

 

Then everything went to hell. Someone must have informed him, and he escaped yet again, vanished as if the thick fog rolling in the city had swallowed him up. Jim was livid with anger, and refused to consider any other possibility in which Oswald didn’t betray him. He didn’t answer Oswald’s calls, didn’t want to talk to him, even crossed the street if they accidentally met. After his mother died, Oswald promised that he’d never cry again, but Jim Gordon broke his heart, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears.

 

It was years before Jim greeted him again, albeit with coldness, the glint in his eyes halting every attempt at reconciliation from Oswald’s part. So he gave up on his secret dream, crushed his hopes, and decided to carry on doing his best. He did incredibly well until the day Abigail Gordon set foot in his club.

 

As quickly as he lost friends in the past, Abigail wormed her way into his heart. What was even more astonishing was that for the first time in his life, there was someone who desired his friendship as intensely as he did theirs. But perhaps the most shocking thing was that this person was Jim’s daughter. Sometimes, especially at the beginning of their friendship, Oswald’s heart would ache just by looking at her: she reminded him so much of Jim. But her personality was completely different from her father’s; she was like a ray of sunshine, lighting up every room she walked into.

 

Oswald doesn’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that he’s smiled more in the couple of months he’s known Abigail than in the past three years in total. She breathed life into him, shared her overflowing love with him, and due to some miracle, even made Jim walk back into the gangster’s life. Oswald is certain that he and Jim managed to settle their argument because of the girl ‒ not only because she made them realize how pointless their fight was, but also because she must have taught him patience: the old Jim would have stormed out of the office without even listening to Oswald.

 

Moreover, the moment they shared after the argument gave Oswald hope that they could still be friends. Perhaps when they first met wasn’t the right time yet ‒ they both had to learn some life lessons before they could cast off their rigid views, and open up to new things. Whatever the reason, every positive change in the gangster’s life leads back to Abigail.

 

Oswald knows it’s unwise forming attachments, because usually good things in his life don’t tend to last. But just like with her father, Oswald tossed reason and rationality aside regarding his friendship with the young Gordon. Dangerously, he grows to expect her visits, usually at the same time each day. Her presence brightens up the club, filling the corners of the room, casting out any shadowy reminders of his sordid criminal deeds that still lurk from doing business the night before.

 

Abigail doesn’t show up at his club one afternoon.

 

The first five minutes, Oswald doesn’t pay attention too closely, figuring that perhaps the young girl was merely late. Little knots of worry begin to form in his stomach after another ten minutes go by. He checks his phone, wondering if Abigail called, but only an empty inbox stares back at him.

 

He tries to convince himself that there is probably a simple explanation for Abigail’s delay that didn’t involve foul play. Promises that he’ll at least wait another fifteen minutes before calling her. While patience was usually one of his virtues, it escapes him today, and he lasts for no longer than five minutes before he dials Abigail’s number.

 

It goes to voicemail. He tries again with the same result which only causes him to fret about Abigail even more. After a few more attempts, switching back and forth from calling to texting, panic sets in. Oswald has been in many life-threatening situations in his life, and yet nothing compares to this.

 

If anything happens to the young girl, he knows he’s to blame. The mere association of being friends with him paints a giant target on Abigail’s back. If he discovers that one of his enemies took the young Gordon to chain him to their bidding, they will soon discover that going after Abigail Gordon was a huge mistake. Oswald may be older, but he’s prepared to burn the whole city down in order to find Abigail. Between the two of them, Jim and Oswald, Gotham’s criminal underworld would probably become obsolete.

 

 _Jim!_ He has to call Jim. His hands tremble as he tries dialing Jim’s number. Finally, after a few failed attempts, his hands manage to stop shaking long enough to hit the right numbers.

 

Jim answers immediately, “Oswald?”

 

“Jim!” Oswald breathes, and notices how thin the air is in the room, how his lungs feel like they’ve been depleted of oxygen. He’s gasping, borderline hyperventilating, and notices that a cold perspiration has begun to gather at his brow.

 

“Oswald?” Jim repeats, this time his voice full of concern. “Are you alright?”

 

“No, I mean yes, I’m fine. It’s Abigail.”

 

Now Jim’s confused.

 

“Abigail? What are you talking about?”

 

Oswald swallows, not sure how to break the news to Jim about that fact his daughter’s possibly missing. “She didn’t show up at the club, and I-I don’t know where she is, I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. I was… worried that something might have happened.”

 

Through the line, Oswald hears Jim give an amused chuckle, “ _Oh, Oswald_.”

 

Oswald stills, his heart flutters, skipping a beat at how warmly his name rolls from Jim’s lips like dripping honey. He’s never even consider that Jim was capable of uttering Oswald’s name without the usual annoyance coating his tone.

 

It takes a while for his brain to start back up, and when it catches up, he realizes that Jim’s still talking.

 

“-is fine. Abby’s visiting her mother for the next couple of days for the holidays.”

  


“Oh…” Heat rushes to Oswald’s face, embarrassed about his reaction.

 

“Louise’s place has terrible cell phone reception, that’s probably why you couldn’t reach Abby,” Jim explains.

 

Oswald can’t help, but notice the stark difference in how Jim says Oswald’s name compared to his ex-wife’s. Oswald quickly berates himself for doing so, thinks that maybe he’s spent too much time with Abigail and her crazy theories.

 

“Louise?” Oswald knows who she is, but plays dumb. He doesn’t think Abigail informed Jim about their little game of personal truths.

 

“Abigail’s mother.”

 

“Oh right, of course,” Oswald pauses. Here he is talking on the phone with Jim Gordon. He craves these little moments, but he knows that Jim probably wants to get on with his day.

 

“I’m sorry for interrupting your day. I’m sure you have things to do-”

“Actually…” Jim cuts him off,  “I, uh, don’t.”

 

Silence ensues on both ends. Jim doesn’t know why he just said that. It’s true ‒ he wasn’t lying about the fact that he’s not busy today, but why he offered that piece of information to the gangster is uncertain. Nor does he understand why there’s been an achy feeling in his chest since Oswald revealed the reason why he called.

 

He doesn’t want the conversation to end, doesn’t want the chance to dwell on the silence ‒ it gives him too much time to think, so Jim quickly switches the topic to a safer one.

 

“Oswald Cobblepot, ruthless criminal kingpin, former mayor and king of Gotham, worried sick over a fifteen-year-old girl,” Jim teases. “How fast did you have your men out the door searching for Abby?”

 

The image of Oswald barking out orders to his men to find someone, and them discovering the target was just a young girl who wasn’t even missing makes Jim burst into laughter. He could picture it vividly, Oswald standing in his office, waving his arms wildly in the air.

 

Oswald lets out an indignant huff, “Jim Gordon, I do _not_ appreciate being poked fun at. Abigail could have been in serious trouble!”

 

Jim sobers a bit, but is still grinning, “Sorry.”

 

Oswald doesn’t think he sounds too sorry, but before he gets the chance to tell him just that, Jim continues more sincerely, “I didn’t mean to upset you, Oswald.”

 

Oh. There goes Jim again with that soft, warm voice. Oswald quickly takes a seat at the bar, afraid his knees might buckle underneath him.

 

“It does mean a lot that you care so much about Abby,” Jim clears his throat. “It means a lot to me.”

 

Oswald’s speechless. When he dialed Jim’s number, he anticipated the worst: angry, harsh words, because at the time he thought Abigail had gone missing, and of course Jim would lose his mind if Oswald lost her under his watch. Instead, Abigail’s safe and Jim… Jim is treating him like a close friend. Making light-hearted jokes, and keeping the conversation going when he could have easily hung up on Oswald.

 

Jim misinterprets Oswald’s silence as lingering resentment over being teased. “Tell you what, how about I get Abigail to call you later on today, and as soon as Abby comes home, we’ll visit you. How does that sound?”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

They continue to talk for another good thirty minutes, and throughout most of it Oswald is smiling or laughing at whatever terrible joke Jim just said ‒ Abigail warned Oswald previously about her father’s painfully bad jokes. By the time the conversation winds down and they say their goodbyes, Oswald’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He has been in love with Jim at a distance for so long, and now that he’s experienced what it’s like to be close to him, to actually have real conversations and not dream about the possibility of doing so, Oswald realizes that he’s has fallen in love with Jim Gordon all over again.

 

A couple of days later, Jim and Abigail are on their way to the Iceberg Lounge, Cookie sitting in the backseat. The young girl grinned broadly when her father suggested a visit to the mobster, and she told him about the idea she’d been chewing over for a while: a Christmas party. Jim was surprisingly easy to convince, so now Abigail had an invitation in her bag.

 

Oswald greets them with open arms, and Abigail hugs him tightly. Jim settles for a handshake, accompanied by a bright smile, and that’s all Oswald wants, for Jim to treat him with kindness. The mobster pets Cookie as well, who already seems twice as big as when he found him.

 

“How was your trip? Did you have a good time with your mom?”

 

“Yeah, I did. It was a spontaneous idea, that’s why I forgot to tell you about it, sorry,” Abigail says.

 

“It’s fine,” Oswald answers, quickly glancing at Jim who’s trying not to smile.

 

“Here, we brought you something,” Abigail hands Oswald the invitation she made especially for him.

 

Oswald takes it, and puts on his reading glasses: “Abigail and Jim cordially invite you to their awesome party on Christmas Eve, starting from 6 PM,” Oswald reads. “Please RSVP.”

 

“Well, how could I not come?” Oswald smiles, peering at the Gordons over his glasses.

 

Jim has no logical explanation for the shiver that runs down his spine at the image, so he’s grateful for Cookie jumping on him, distracting him from certain thoughts. Meanwhile, Abigail claps excitedly, claiming that this will be the best Christmas.

 

“Abigail, would you please go to the kitchen? There’s a plate of cookies on the counter, they should be cool by now,” Oswald tells Abigail, and limps towards the counter.

 

“Would you like a coffee?” he asks Jim, and the Commissioner nods, sitting down on one of the bar chairs. “I must say that this invitation brought back some memories.”

 

Jim blushes, knowing exactly what Oswald means. “Err, yeah.”

 

“I hope you plan on showing up this time,” Oswald teases, without any trace of resentment.

 

Jim laughs, Oswald proud at himself for having caused that sound.

 

“Wow, Oswald, what are these cookies? They are so awesome,” Abigail exclaims, stuffing another one in her mouth.

 

“They’re called _Spekulatius_ , a type of German spiced cookies baked around Christmas.  I used my mother’s secret recipe,” Oswald informs Abigail as he hands Jim his cup of coffee.

 

“They’re really tasty. By the way, you never talked about your mom before.”

 

“ _Abby_!” Jim warns his daughter, quickly glancing at Oswald.

 

“It’s fine, Jim,” the mobster says with a sad smile. “She passed away a long time ago. We had a really tough time, but she was a very good mother, so loving and caring. She was a cook, so she taught me many recipes.”

 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Abigail says, and takes Oswald’s hand in hers. “I’m sure she was a wonderful woman.”

 

“She was,” Jim chimes in, and both Abigail and Oswald look at him with wide eyes. “She loved you a lot.”

 

“T-thanks, Jim,” Oswald needs a few moments to recover. “So, do you want me to bring anything for the party?”

 

“No, no, we’ve got everything covered,” Abigail replies quickly. “Dad and I’ll be cooking. Although these cookies are really good…”

 

“I think it’s better if we ask Oswald to bring some,” Jim says, taking his fifth piece from the plate. “I don’t think we can bake anything even remotely as tasty as this.”

 

Oswald doesn’t know how to deal with the indirect compliment, but he files it away, cherishing it, to think about it when his good mood decreases. He knows that he should be careful, that he should reign in his feelings, and not let them free, that he shouldn’t bow down the first time Jim treats him humanely, but his heart is a hungry thing, starving even for the smallest, subtlest gesture coming from the Commissioner. He cannot wait for Christmas Eve.

 

A few days later, Oswald gets out of his limousine in front of the Gordons’ house. His hands are full with gifts and a huge batch of Spekulatius, as requested by his hosts. He looks particularly dashing tonight: his black, three-piece suit is paired with a festive, deep red tie interwoven with subtle golden threads, and a black coat and cashmere scarf.

 

In all the rush, he even made time for a visit to his hairdresser, to have his hair cut and dyed ‒ his grey roots started showing, and he couldn’t have that. Oswald Cobblepot hides his age remarkably well, however: he’s close to fifty, but thanks to his rigorous face care routine, he looks at least ten years younger. He discovered early on the wonders of make-up, and he uses it very effectively.

 

Abigail opens the door with a big smile. “Merry Christmas, Ozzie!”

 

“Merry Christmas, Abigail!”

 

“Come in, it’s so cold outside!” Abigail ushers the mobster in, taking his coat like a good host. “Wow, you look really good!”

 

“Thank you. You’re very pretty as well,” Oswald says, admiring the girl’s intriguing braiding. “Where should I put the cookies?”

 

“We set up everything in the living room,” Abigail explains. “Come, everyone is already here.”

 

“Everyone?” the gangster asks with confusion. He thought it would be a small celebration, with only Jim and Abigail.

 

Oswald is overwhelmed as soon as he enters the room. Not only is Harvey there with his spouse, but Jim is talking to a red-haired woman who could only be Abigail’s mother (although in the pictures he’s seen of her, she had light brown hair).

 

“Well… Merry Christmas!” he says awkwardly as everyone turns towards him.

 

Abigail takes the package containing the cookies, and tells Oswald to place the gifts he’s brought under the Christmas tree. The gangster takes longer than necessary to arrange the boxes, making sure that the nametags are visible. He can feel Detective Bullock’s eyes on him, but he ignores it. Then Cookie comes to greet him, and Oswald is happy to play with the pup, who runs excitedly around him.

 

While Abigail is gone, Oswald distracts himself with the dog, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. He wasn’t expecting this turnout for the party, certainly not with Jim’s ex-wife in company.

 

“You showed up,” Oswald hears Jim say as he approaches. He says it almost conspiratorially, and Oswald realizes Jim’s making a joke that only Oswald and him would understand.  

 

His chest thumps painfully as he glances up from his bent position, having been scratching behind Cookie’s ears, and Jim gazing down at him. Oswald can only hope he’s not blushing too much.

 

Oswald straightens, and immediately the dog whines at the lost of contact, bumping his head against Oswald’s hand.

 

“Of course. You know I’m always one for parties,” Oswald says and is kicking himself over how stupid that sounds. Despite this, there’s a hint of a smile forming and Jim opens his mouth to respond, but Detective Bullock’s voice pierces through their own bubble, reminding both that other people are present.

 

Jim sighs, looking put out at the interruption. “Hold on, let me go see what Harvey wants, but I’ll talk to you later. Make yourself comfortable.”

 

 _Not likely to happen_ , he thinks but nods to Jim, watching him walk away. He dares to risk a glimpse around the room, eyes landing on Abigail’s mother, and he discovers that she’s observing him with a curious tilt to her head. It must run in the family.

 

How long has she been watching him? The entire time during his interaction with Jim? Oswald fears that she might have discovered his feelings towards her ex-husband since he’s always struggling with controlling his facial expressions around Jim Gordon. It only took Abigail a couple of visits to his club to make the same deduction.

 

To make matters worse, Harvey’s voice from the next room grows louder, and everyone in the room can hear him asking Jim, “Why is that scumbag here?” Fortunately, he doesn’t hear Jim’s response, afraid to hear his next words. Doubt enters his mind, and he’s suddenly second guessing about having shown up here this evening.

 

Oswald swallows loudly when he sees Louise making her way across the room towards him. There’s no escape, it’s too late, she’s already set her sights on him, and Oswald can’t walk away without appearing to be rude, so he stands there dumbly, at a loss.

 

She thrusts out her hand in the space between them, smiling, “I’m Louise, Abby’s mom.”

 

This must be where Abigail gets her friendliness from, Oswald thinks, and shakes the hand offered to him.

 

“Oswald Cobblepot.”

 

Louise grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, “I know. Abigail is always going on about you.”

 

A warm feeling rushes through him at her words, washing away any doubt to why he’s here. He’s there for Abigail, because she asked him to, and he can handle awkward conversations and glares for Abigail’s sake.

 

He tries to keep this in mind throughout the rest of the night. He spends most of it clinging to a wall, avoids Bullock like the plague, and sneaks food to the dog when no one’s watching. Everyone around him is talking and laughing, and he’s surrounded by joyous people, yet he feels alone.

 

He needs to get away ‒ just for a moment ‒ just long enough to collect himself. So he excuses himself and tries to find the bathroom, although he’s not too certain anyone’s paying any attention. Oswald doesn’t realize someone’s following him until he’s slammed up against a wall, out of the guests’ view.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, _Penguin_?” Bullock spits out.

  
Oswald probably should have expected being shoved into a wall tonight. It’s such a common occurrence, he’s not too surprised by it happening. He’s more dismayed about the fact that out of everyone, Harvey Bullock is the one to have snuck up on him. He blames old age for this.

 

“Abigail invited me,” he says calmly.

 

“Yeah, heard about that, and you might have Jim convinced that you’re not a good-for-nothing rat, but I’m not fooled. You’re still that little umbrella boy trying to become something you’ll never be, and being a part of Jim and Abigail’s lives? You don’t belong there, and you certainly shouldn’t be here.”

 

Harvey’s words cut deep, striking at Oswald’s insecurities ‒ regardless, he doesn’t show how close to home they hit. Instead, he gives nothing away, staring unimpressed by Bullock’s attempt to scare him off.

 

“Tread carefully, Detective. You wouldn’t want Abigail to see your little testosterone-fueled show of dominance? Would hate to see her upset at her own Christmas party.”

 

Harvey growls, knowing that Oswald has backed him into a corner, even though Oswald’s the one with his back to the wall. For a second, Oswald thinks he’s about to punch him, but Harvey merely lets out another noise of anger and walks away, shaking his head.

 

Oswald lets out a shaky breath of relief, leaning heavily against the wall. He spends the next few minutes collecting himself once more, letting his racing heart slow down until it’s back to its regular pace.

 

When he returns to the living room, adrenaline no longer pulsating in his veins, he feels like his heart stops and air is knocked out of his lungs. He should look away, he knows, but his eyes refuse to look anywhere else. Louise and Jim are standing in the middle of the room, near the Christmas tree, watching Abigail ‒ like a family. Louise’s hand is on Jim’s forearm, drawing his attention. Her hand lingers, fingertips lightly pressing into Jim’s skin, and Jim doesn’t even notice, clearly used to his ex-wife’s touch.

 

Oswald’s stomach rolls at the sight of them, especially at the fond expression etched on Jim’s face. In the last few days, Oswald thought that he and Jim have been growing closer, and he has been entertaining the possibility that maybe Jim Gordon isn’t merely tolerating him for Abigail’s sake.

 

That Jim could look at him with the same fondness he’s gazing at his ex-wife.

 

Clearly, he was wrong. He has deluded himself into believing that Jim Gordon could be interested in a criminal.

 

Oswald stumbles back, eyes burning and tears starting to well up and threaten to spill over. He waits until he’s positive no one’s paying attention before he makes his escape. As soon as he’s out the door, the cold air hits him directly, but he doesn’t notice the frigid temperature or the snowflakes falling and melting into his exposed skin. He’s shuddering, uncontrollable little gasps slipping out of his mouth.

 

He feels like a fool and he is one. He was a fool trying to play house with Jim Gordon and his daughter. Abigail Gordon doesn’t need a family ‒ she already has one ‒ and Detective Bullock’s words come back to his mind. He was right, Oswald doesn’t have a place in Abigail and Jim’s lives. He should have never let himself get carried away with the idea that he ever possibly could.

  
That night as Oswald lies in bed, he finds himself unable to stop the tears, and just like he’s done before, he once again cries himself to sleep over Jim Gordon.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! We bring you a fluffy chapter, hope you like it! Prompts used from the Bingo card: presents and Christmas sweaters. :)
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Nekomata58919!

All Abigail wanted for Christmas was to have her loved ones around, and celebrate quietly with good food and lots of laughter. She somehow managed to gather everyone – even Oswald had accepted the invitation - and she and her dad didn’t burn the turkey or ruin the side dishes. The young girl is all smiles and cheer – that is, until she discovers that one of her guests is missing.

 

While Uncle Harvey is fiddling with the audio system’s remote, Abigail leans in to whisper in her father’s ear: “Dad, have you seen Oswald?”

 

It’s only then that they both realize that the gangster has mysteriously vanished. They get up to check the kitchen and bathroom, but there’s no trace of Oswald. Next, they check the hallway, and Abigail notices that Oswald’s coat is not on the rack anymore. She quickly opens the door to see if he just went out for some fresh air, but the streets are empty.

 

Meanwhile, Jim finds an unfamiliar scarf lying on the ground. Judging by the softness of the material, it must be an expensive piece, so it surely belongs to the mobster. But where has he left so hurriedly that he forgot his scarf?

 

“He’s not outside, dad.”

 

Jim swallows, and feels his pockets until he finds his phone. The call goes to voicemail instantly, though, and he and Abigail share a worried look.

 

“It’s because of me,” Abigail says dejectedly. “I was so selfish tonight, and didn’t really pay attention to him. Or I don’t know, I must have offended him in some way; he wouldn’t go home without saying goodbye at least.”

 

“No, darling, don’t say that,” Jim hugs Abigail to himself, caressing her hair. “You were a lovely host. He must have got an important call, or maybe he didn’t feel well.”

 

“Oh no, he probably thought about his mom. Remember he said he hasn’t celebrated Christmas in some years, so it must have been a bit overwhelming,” Abigail muses, and Jim nods.

 

“Hey, when are we opening the gifts?” Harvey shouts from the living room. “I’m kinda itching to see what’s in that huge box.”

 

“Go and set aside Oswald’s gifts and the ones he brought for us,” Jim tells his daughter.

 

“Okay. Aren’t you coming?”

 

“I need to check something first,” Jim points towards the kitchen with a smile.

 

He tries to call Oswald again, but no luck this time either. Jim stares at the scarf, a plan already forming in his head. He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but then again he never knows with Oswald, and he realizes that perhaps that’s what makes his relationship with him so exciting.

 

“Jiiim!”

 

“Coming,” he shouts back, folds the scarf carefully and places it beside his coat before returning to the living room.

 

The next morning, after the initial after party cleanup is done, Jim and Abigail grab the unopened presents from the night before, and carry them out to the car. Abigail’s a bit surprised at her father’s proposal of visiting Oswald; she didn’t expect that she wouldn’t even have to ask to go see what was wrong with the mobster. 

 

A part of her is hesitant, though. She doesn’t have a clue as to what drove Oswald to disappear from the party last night. On the drive there, she plays back last night’s events in her mind repeatedly to see if she was to blame. What if she is? What if she’s done something to lose Oswald’s friendship forever?

 

When they arrive, Abigail’s feet are glued to the sidewalk: she’s frozen, too nervous to enter the club. There are a thousand ways this could go, like Oswald kicking them out as soon as they walk through the door, and Abigail thinks she’d rather just stand out here in the cold than face the possibility of Oswald hating them.

 

Her father circles the vehicle, and stops in front of Abigail, cupping her shoulders with his hands. 

 

“Abby, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” he tells her reassuringly. “There’s nothing you could do that would make Oswald hate you. I know Oswald, and he probably cherishes your friendship more than anything else.”

 

“Yours too.” 

 

Her father pauses at that, but it’s only for a second. One side of his mouth pulls up into a half grin, “Now, why don’t you help grab some of those presents in the backseat. I can’t carry them all by myself.”

 

When they enter, the club is empty and dark. The only source of light is streaming from the windows. Somehow, it appears to be colder in here with the lights switched off and all the decorations, the tinsel and snowflakes swaying, highlighting the lonesome atmosphere. 

 

Abigail worries that perhaps Oswald isn’t even here, but there’s movement to her right, a swish of a violet robe following the kitchen door swinging shut. Oswald halts in his tracks, clutching a peanut butter container in one hand with a spoon sticking out, when he sees the Gordons standing in the middle of his club.

 

“Jim…” Oswald’s voice is barely a whisper, and his eyes fall to where Abigail is. They’re all red and a bit puffy like he’s been crying. It confirms Abigail’s suspicions; Oswald was upset the night before, and something at the party must have been the culprit.

 

“W-What are you guys doing here?” 

 

Jim speaks up when Abigail doesn’t say anything, “You left the party before we got the chance to open the presents. We couldn’t do it without you, right, Abby?”

 

She just nods, words aren’t able to form around the painful lump caught in her throat. The sight of Oswald makes her eyes water. He hasn’t even bothered dressing today, still wearing his pajamas. It’s evident that he’s not expecting any company. Abigail’s terrified that she could be the reason why the gangster’s so depressed.

 

“I’m sorry!” She blurts out suddenly, fingers curled up and squeezing the material of her sweater. 

 

Confusion takes over Oswald’s face. He tilts his head, “Dear child, what are you apologizing for?” 

 

Abigail voice breaks. “I’m s-sorry if I did something that made you leave the party early. P-Please, don’t be mad at me.” 

 

Comprehension and guilt rushes over Oswald all at once. He places the peanut butter aside on top of the bar counter, and pulls the young girl into his arms. He does as much comforting as he receives it, even though he doesn’t know if his actions are the correct ones. Oswald simply follows in the steps of his mother, how she used to take him up in an embrace whenever he was sad.

 

“Oh, Abigail. I’m not upset with you,” he murmurs into her blonde hair, and she starts crying. His shoulder takes the brunt of it, muffling Abigail’s sobs. 

 

When he pulls away, he smiles softly at her, tucking hair behind her ear. “You did nothing wrong. You were the most courteous host ‒ I taught you well.” 

 

That earns him a watery laugh. 

 

“Why did you leave then?” Abigail sniffles. 

 

“Last night was a time for you to spend with your family and I… Well, I shouldn’t have been there.” 

 

At his explanation, Abigail throws herself into his embrace once more, Oswald stumbling back a bit from the force of it, but swears he’s never felt this warm and welcomed before. He holds the back of her head as he clings to her, and meets Jim’s eyes over her shoulder. 

 

Jim’s expression is unreadable, just quietly watching the scene between them unfold. Oswald thinks that’s better than if he were frowning. He wonders if Jim even noticed that he went home, or if he just brought Abigail over. Oswald kisses Abigail’s forehead before letting her go.

 

“I appreciate your visit, but shouldn’t you be with your family? Why would you want to spend the day with an old man?”

 

“Of course, I want to spend it with you, you’re my friend!” Abigail exclaims, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Oswald looks at her with wonder ‒ a Gordon who wants to be friends with him! He glances at Jim briefly, who’s shaking his head with a smile, clearly knowing what is going through Oswald’s mind.

 

“If you’re old, then what am I?” Jim asks, amused. “Besides, Louise went home yesterday evening. She doesn’t really like Gotham.”

 

Oswald lets out a quiet “Oh.”, his eyes never leaving Jim as he steps closer. Maybe Jim and Louise are not getting back together then?

 

“Here, you forgot your scarf yesterday,” Jim says as he puts the soft cashmere around Oswald’s neck. “Merry Christmas, Oswald.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” the gangster replies, a bit breathless.

 

The commissioner puts his other hand on Oswald’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, his eyes examining the gangster’s face, as if to assess if he was alright.

 

“If we’re bothering you…”

 

Jim barely finishes uttering the words before Oswald cuts him off: “Heavens forbid! I told both of you that you’re always welcome here.  _ Always _ . Let me just get dressed, and then we can get started on the feast.”

 

Oswald limps towards the door that leads towards his private room, Jim calling after him:

 

“Feast? What feast?” They look at each other with Abigail, then at the forgotten peanut butter jar. Abigail snickers. “Peanut butter?”

 

The gangster makes an embarrassed noise, his voice getting more muffled as he goes deeper into his room. “Well, if you really want to know, I did prepare a Christmas lunch, but didn’t feel like eating it alone. But now that you’re here…”

 

A few minutes later, he emerges in a gorgeous burgundy three-piece suit, paired with a black shirt and silver tie. He looks as if he’s about to attend the most elite ball, not a lunch with friends. 

 

“I feel underdressed now,” Abigail declares, looking at her green Christmas sweaters with a moose on it. Judging by her father’s face, he feels the same way, his red sweater decorated with snowflakes not really the pinnacle of elegance either.

 

“Oh, I… I can change,” Oswald says, embarrassed.

 

“No, no, this is your style. As long as you’re comfortable.”

 

Oswald leads them to the kitchen, telling them to bring the presents as well. Unlike Abigail, Jim has never been there. He places the presents on a small table, watching with wide eyes as Oswald seems to conjure dish after dish from the oven and fridge. There’s a Christmas ham, roast potatoes and carrots, gravy and cranberry sauce.

 

“You didn’t joke about the feast,” Jim says, suddenly realizing how hungry he is.

 

Oswald is practically glowing, clearly enjoying his role as a host. They dig in, the conversation flowing freely, and everyone forgets their worries. Oswald doesn’t think about Louise or any other pretendant to Jim’s heart, he has Abigail and her father all to himself. Jim seems to have left his black and white thinking at the door, and sees Oswald beyond his image as Gotham’s crimelord. It surprises Jim how easy it is to talk to him. Abigail sits between the two men, and feels her heart swell with joy ‒ the looks Oswald and her father exchange more than confirm the undeniable attraction she’s always sensed between them.

 

“This is sooo delicious, Oswald! Too bad you don’t live with us, that way you could always make us dinner,” Abigail adds smugly, and Jim chokes on his food.

 

“Jim, are you alright?” Oswald asks, blushing, and pours him a glass of water.

 

The commissioner drinks it, Oswald patting his back. “I’m fine,” he croaks, “the food went down the wrong way.”

 

A while later, Oswald leans against his chair and unbuttons his vest: “Oh goodness, I ate too much. Look how big I am,” he whines, patting his belly.

 

Abigail snickers, and shows off her own round belly.

 

“You were too scrawny when you were young,” Jim says, surprising both Oswald and Abigail with his candidness. “Now you look more… healthy.”

 

Abigail and Oswald laugh, the young girl embarrassed by her father’s attempts at flirting. For some reason, though, it looks like they are working on Oswald, who has a pretty blush.

 

“Thanks. So, how about we open some presents?” the gangster suggests.

 

Abigail helps him with the boxes, excitement clearly bubbling inside her.

 

“I hope it’s fine with you, Jim, if Abigail gets her present first,” Oswald teases. 

 

“Go ahead.”

 

The young girl unties the red bow, and the box reveals a beautiful necklace with a blue, heart-shaped pendant.

 

“Oh, this is beautiful!” Abigail gasps, and Jim almost has a heart attack. That necklace must have cost a fortune!

 

Oswald helps Abigail put on the jewelry, and basks in her happiness, receiving the kiss on his cheek with a smirk.

 

“I’m going to the bathroom to check it out,” Abigail says, and leaves the two men alone.

 

“Are you insane?!” Jim whispers. “That necklace looks very expensive.  _ Too  _ expensive.”

 

“It’s fine, Jim. I saw it in the shop window, and couldn’t leave it there. See how much she liked it?”

 

When Abigail returns, he finds Oswald and her father leaning close to each other and whispering. She decides not to comment on it, even though she feels like squealing.

 

“Dad, it’s your turn to open presents,” Abigail says.

 

Oswald looks nervous as Jim opens the box. The Commissioner gawks at the expensive watch, and he’s about to start saying how this present too is way too expensive, but Oswald stops him.

 

“Before you start saying how you can’t accept this… I noticed a while ago that your watch was missing.”

 

“I… yes, it was broken in an investigation a few weeks ago,” Jim says, in a daze, astonished by Oswald’s attentiveness.

 

“So, you’re a busy man, and you need a watch. Thought you’d enjoy a practical gift more.”

 

Jim swallows, and tries on the watch. Of course, it fits perfectly, and he even likes the model: it’s simple, but elegant. He doesn’t think he can look at Oswald without doing something stupid, like hugging the gangster to himself.

 

“Thank you. So much,” Jim manages to get out, still not meeting Oswald’s eyes. 

 

“I’m pleased you like it.” And it shows how satisfied Oswald is on his face. “However, I did get you something else.” 

 

Jim is already feeling guilty at how much the mobster had spent on their presents. “Oswald, if it as expensive as your last present, there’s no way I can possibly accept-”

 

“Nonsense, Jim! Buying you and Abigail presents has been the most worthwhile spending of my money. Besides, this one has merely sentimental value. It cost nothing.”

 

Frowning, Jim feels uncertain about accepting anything else from Oswald ‒ it had nothing to do with morality, but more to do with the fact that the gift he bought for Oswald holds no comparison to the one he received. Once again he feels inadequate in their relationship. Oswald going above and beyond to prove time and time again how much being friends with Jim means to him. It brings back rocky memories of their past, the often one-sided favors. He doesn’t want this to become  _ that  _ relationship again.

 

Reluctantly, Jim takes the small dark box from the mobster. He glances at Oswald once before peering down at the gift. Removing the lid slowly, his eyes widen at what lays in the box.

 

“My old badge…” Jim murmurs to himself. There, resting in the small container, was his tarnished GCPD detective badge. Jim runs the pad of his thumb over it, swiping across the golden engraving. The badge has more than a few dents from years of use, but it brought memories swirling back. He’d thought he had lost it in one of his scuffles with a criminal.

 

“I found it years ago, lying in some alley.” Oswald watches as Jim is examining the lost relic, “I’ve meant to return it for a while now… Wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome after… well, you know.”

 

“You kept onto it after all these years?” Jim looks up, catching Oswald’s stare. Suddenly, he’s taken back twenty years. There’s a soft smile on the gangster’s face; he’s looking at Jim the same way he used to, and Jim hasn’t realized how much he missed Oswald looking at him like that.

 

The question causes Oswald to duck his head, but Jim can see the pink flush spreading across his cheeks. Oswald doesn’t say anything, simply nods, and that’s more than enough for Jim. 

 

Abigail clears her throat, “Dad… can we give Oswald his presents now?”

 

Heat rushes up Jim’s neck at being caught staring at the gangster, and then he remembers his present for Oswald. He’s completely mortified at the stark difference between their gifts. At the time, Jim thought it would be a good idea to get it, a ceramic penguin mug. Now he realizes after receiving such thoughtful gifts from Oswald that this was a terrible idea. 

 

“Let me take a wild guess,” Oswald teases after looking at the wrapped present, obviously recognizing exactly what it was by the shape alone, peering up at Jim with a mirthful grin. 

 

Jim wants to bang his head against the table. Before Oswald could grab the present, Jim stands and swipes the gift from the table. 

 

He holds the wrapped mug behind his back, not wanting Oswald to see the blasted thing any longer. “Let me return this. I-I can’t let you accept this, not after the presents you got us.” 

 

“Absolutely not!” Oswald stands from his seat now, limping towards Jim. 

 

Jim backs away, slipping around the corner of the table, earning him a loud annoyed noise from the mobster. Oswald follows, reaching him and the present, only for Jim to move the gift out of his reach once more. He uses his height as an advantage, raising it above both their heads.

 

Oswald is laughing as he steps into Jim’s space, standing on his tiptoes with one hand lying splayed on Jim’s chest for balance as he stretches his other arm upwards to make a grab at the gift.

 

“Jim Gordon, give me the damn mug!” 

 

That’s when they hear giggling, and they both freeze, forgetting that they have an audience. 

 

“Aw, Ozzie, you said dam-”

 

Oswald sharply turns toward Abigail, forgetting the hand still resting on Jim’s chest, “Don’t you dare repeat that, young lady!”

 

He seems to realize how close he’s standing to Jim and pulls away. Jim ignores the temptation to lean forward, to chase after him. 

 

“Please, Oswald. Let me get you something else.” 

 

“Jim, I don’t care about what you got me. The fact you got me a present alone is enough,” Oswald assures him and something in his expression makes Jim relinquish the gift over.

 

He wants to look away, but finds himself unable to as Oswald carefully removes the wrapping paper. As soon as Oswald sees the mug, his whole face brightens. “Oh, I love it, Jim!” 

 

Jim doesn’t think he’s faking his reaction, he seems to genuinely enjoy it, but a part of him still can’t fathom how Oswald could like his gift. 

 

Abigail doesn’t want to interrupt ‒ watching her dad and Oswald interact has so far been the best present she got this year. Oswald looks like he’s about to throw his arms around her father and plant a kiss on him. Much to Abigail’s disappointment, this does not happen. Instead, Oswald steps away, clutching the mug to his chest. 

 

“Thank you, Jim.” He tears his eyes away from the man, moving back towards the table. Spotting a Tupperware container with a small wrapped gift next to it. “I assume this is yours, Abigail?”

 

She nods, excited to see how Oswald will react to her present for him, mainly for him to try the homemade cookies she baked the night before. Every time she came to the club, Oswald always prepared her a snack, and this time she wanted to return the favor. She waits impatiently as he chews on one of the cookies, curious to know if he likes them. 

 

“Absolutely delicious!” He praises, “You are quite the baker. I had no idea!”

 

Pride fills her chest at his stamp of approval, and when he asks if she wants to join him in the kitchen one of these days to bake together, she doesn’t hesitate to accept his offer.

 

Oswald moves onto her next present, and out of the corner of his eye, sees a hand moving towards the tupperware container full of cookies. 

 

“ _ James Gordon, stay out of my cookies! _ ” He slaps the cookie out of Jim’s hand, earning a loud snicker from Abigail. 

 

“She never bakes for me!” 

 

Oswald shrugs, “You should have simply asked then. Manners, Jim, find some!” 

 

Jim rolls his eyes at this treatment, but doesn’t attempt to steal another cookie. Once Oswald is certain that his cookies are safe, he continues unwrapping his second gift. It’s a beautiful indigo case for his reading glasses. 

 

“Thank you, Abigail. I’ll certainly use this.” He pulls the girl for another hug, giving a quick kiss at her right temple. 

 

Oswald’s voice wavers a bit as a rush of emotions hits him. Now in this moment, he feels like he’s a part of something meaningful for the first time in his life. Included. Wanted.

 

“T-Thank you both.”

 

Later on in the week, Jim gets undisputable proof that Oswald liked his present. During one of their visits, he sees Oswald sitting at the bar, drinking out of the penguin mug. Something tugs in his chest, and Jim almost walks into a wall at the sight of it. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! We only have one more chapter left! Here's another fluffy chapter, hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> Biggest thanks for the beta, Nekomata58919!

New Year’s Eve finds Abigail at Oswald’s place again. This time, though, they are celebrating without Jim, who has to work since he was free at Christmas. Oswald is glad for the company: once upon a time, he used to organize the best New Year’s Eve parties in his club, but he grew tired of the noise and drunk people. They decided to have a quiet night with Abigail, their afternoon spent with cooking and baking.

 

Abigail is leafing through the newspaper while they’re waiting for the cheese puffs to bake in the oven, and Oswald pours another glass of an expensive French champagne.

 

“Apparently the zoo will reopen next week,” Abigail says, not taking her eyes off from the page. “The Gotham Zoo will reopen its gates to visitors on Monday, the 9 th of January. Free admittance for children under ten and discounted tickets for families. Surprise programs, new animals…”

 

Abigail turns around, though Oswald is already standing behind her, peering at the article over her shoulder. “We should totally go, Ozzie!”

 

“Of course. I think I could get us in for free,” Oswald replies and sits down beside Abigail.

 

“Really? You know people there?”

 

“Well, I did initiate the zoo’s expansion when I was a mayor. The bird section, in particular,” Oswald says with a smile. “I haven’t visited it in years, though.”

 

“See, we have to go!” Abigail exclaims, and the gangster doesn’t need too much convincing.

 

They look through the Gotham Gazette boredly, until they come across an article about the GCPD capturing a group of Arkham escapees. There’s a picture of Jim, shot as he was giving a statement most probably.

 

“Every time I see a picture of your dad in the newspaper, I think that’s a smudge on his upper lip, until I remember that he has a mustache,” Oswald sighs.

 

“So you don’t like it?” Abigail turns toward him, surprised. Her dad’s had it for so long, she can barely imagine him without it.

 

“Well… I’m not really a fan. I’d shave it if I were him. I think our cheese puffs are done,” the mobster says, and gets up to the take the pastries out of the oven.

 

Abigail bites her lip as she takes out her phone sneakily. ‘Oswald hates your mustache. I think you should shave it.’ she types quickly, and sends it to her father.

 

“So, we’ll leave them to cool, and then we can assemble our platter,” Oswald declares, though he offers half of a puff for Abigail to taste.

 

On the other side of Gotham, Commissioner Gordon is staring at his phone, frowning. Through the blinds of his office, he notices Harvey and calls him in.

 

“Hey, Jimbo. I haven’t finished the reports yet, but I promise you’ll have them on your desk by the end of the year.”

 

“No, uh, this is about something else. Can you close the door, please?” Jim asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

He feels embarrassed as Harvey turns back with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Do you think my mustache is ugly?” Jim blurts out.

 

Harvey laughs raucously. “Are you seriously asking me this? I’ve been telling you to shave that dead animal off your face for years.”

 

“You never said anything…” Jim mumbles.

 

“I did, but you never listen to me, Jim.” Harvey’s face suddenly lights up, “Oh, I know what this is about! You met someone!”

 

“No, no…” Jim tries to stop his colleague, but Harvey is already terrorizing him with questions.

 

“Who is she, Jim? Is it someone from the GCPD? I bet it’s that pretty new detective, what’s her name, Cynthia? You lucky dog!”

 

“No, Harvey, Jesus! She’s not even thirty. There’s no one, alright?” Jim goes to window, watching three teenagers scurrying off, each holding a beer. “Abigail said it doesn’t look good.”

 

“Aha,” Harvey says, clearly not believing his friend. “Well, if you’re into this ‘new year, new me’ bullshit, then sure, go ahead. I mean, you haven’t gone out with someone since Louise. And I get it, you were busy raising Abby, but she’s grown up now. Time to care about yourself.”

 

“Yeah…” Jim says, and his cheeks redden at the image that crosses his mind.

 

“Besides, you might want to listen to your daughter for a change. If she says the mustache must go, then it must go.”

 

Jim smiles, and vows to buy a razor as soon as his shift ends.

 

After Abigail and Oswald finish their NYE dinner, they are lying on Oswald’s huge sofa, thinking that maybe they ate too much, and in the gangster’s case, also drank a bit too much. Abigail is incredibly thirsty, but she can’t move.

 

“Hey, Ozzie, can you do me a favor?”

 

The mobster giggles, mumbling something that sounds like ‘typical Gordon’. After a hiccup, he explains, or tries to, between giggles, “You know, your father and I used to trade favors.”

 

Abigail forgets about everything, and sits up. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, he’d come to me for information… underground rumors that would help him solve the case he was working on. Then he’d do something in exchange for that, but most of the time, we’d just say that he owed me a favor. He always pretended to forget.”

 

“That sounds like dad.”

 

Abigail watches as Oswald smiles with his eyes closed, the memory clearly a fond one. But then his eyes pop open, “You know what, Abigail, now that I’m thinking about it, your dad actually owes me one. He owes me a favor.”

 

Oswald sits up as well, looking more sober. If Abigail hadn’t witnessed him drinking the whole bottle of champagne, she wouldn’t know that the gangster is tipsy.

 

“Tell him,” Abigail adds with a devilish grin. “Next time you see him, remind him. Didn’t you say that you don’t like people owing you?”

 

The gangster sighs. “Yes, but your father never liked these exchanges. It would just ruin our friendship, and I don’t want that.”

 

Abbigail pats Oswald’s head, careful not to ruin his hairdo. “I doubt it would, but okay. I understand.”

 

Oswald’s old cuckoo clock tells them that it’s midnight. “Happy New Year, Abigail.”

 

“Happy New Year, Ozzie.”

 

It’s not much longer into the new year until Oswald’s eyes drift shut, and he gives one more hiccup before dozing off to sleep. Abigail, on the other hand, is wide awake. She giggles quietly to herself as she watches a bit of drool dribble from the corner of Oswald’s open mouth. She has seen her father in a similar state countless times. They are so much alike, she thinks, so many similar qualities they both share despite being on opposite sides of the law. It makes sense why such two opposing figures are so drawn to each other. It’s just like magnets. 

 

Abigail hasn’t done much meddling in her father’s life. Her association with Oswald couldn't qualify as meddling either since she went to the gangster due to her own curiosity. She had no inkling her meandering to Oswald’s club would blossom into this new friendship and would rekindle long lost feelings between Oswald and her dad. 

 

But after watching her father and Oswald dance around each other, Abigail knows that she’s going to have to step in. She knows her dad and he isn’t one to go after the things he wants, to put himself first for once. As a daughter, it’s her familial right to ensure the happiness of her father and Oswald Cobblepot makes her dad happy. This is confirmed after every visit when a small smile plays on her father’s face for the next few days after each encounter with the gangster. 

 

Abigail will have to intervene just this instance, and she knows the perfect way to do so.

 

A few days before Monday arrives, Abigail makes sure her father doesn’t have to work. Luckily, he doesn’t. It would seem fate is playing in her favor, because even the weather starts to clear up, and Monday is predicted to bring sunshine and warmth compared to the chilly winds from the last few weeks.

 

She reminds Oswald of the plans for the trip to the zoo, just in case he might have forgotten after falling into his drunken slumber. He quickly assures that the plan is still on, despite his massive headache from his hangover. She tries to keep her voice down when she thanks him profusely.

 

Now all she has to do is convince her father. It doesn’t take much, she discovers, one Saturday evening while he's skimming through Gotham’s newspaper. 

 

“Dad?” She creeps into the living room.

 

He doesn’t look up from whatever article his attention is fixed on, merely makes a sort of grunt-like noise to acknowledge her.

 

“Do you think we could go to the zoo on Monday?”

 

“The zoo, huh?” The top of the newspaper lowers so that Jim could peer over it.

 

“Yeah, they’re reopening this Monday, and I just thought that since you’re not working that day, we could go.” 

 

Jim scratches at the place where his mustache used to lie. Abigail had to fight against smiling when her father came home the other day without a hairy upper lip. Her face must have revealed something, because he told her not to say a single word, and walked away after she mimed a zipping motion over her own mouth.

 

“I don’t suppose why not,” Jim ponders, “I used to go a lot, back when I was kid. Your grandfather used to take me every summer to see the animals.”

 

Her dad doesn’t talk about Grandpa that often, so Abigail knows that she struck a chord unknowingly, brought back an old memory for her father by mentioning the zoo.

 

From there on, the rest of the plan falls into place.

 

Like the weather channels predicted, Monday is a lot warmer than the previous days. They only need a couple of layers to fight against the cold. Abigail was told that they were supposed to meet at the entrance gates. Oswald promised her that he would take care of their admittance.

 

“Shouldn’t we go inside?” Jim asks, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

 

“Not yet.”

 

Before Jim could ask more questions, a limousine pulls up, so it becomes clear whom they have been waiting for. Oswald gets out with a pleased smile, leaning on his cane. However, his expression changes completely when his eyes land on a clean-shaven Jim ‒ he thinks he’s dreaming, the beloved detective from his youth standing there. Oswald stops for a few seconds, and Jim has to duck his head under the intense gaze. When he looks up with blushing cheeks, he finds Oswald enclosing the distance, joy illuminating his whole face. 

 

“Jim, my old friend… this, this has to be the greatest surprise of my life.”

 

The commissioner doesn’t know how, but his hand ends up clasping Oswald’s, squeezing the gangster’s cold fingers while he gets lost in Oswald’s eyes.

 

“Come on,” Abigail drags them towards the entrance, Jim and Oswald finally looking away from each other, but still smiling.

 

Oswald only raises his hand as they pass through the gate, the ticket vendor nodding fiercely. Jim wonders if it’s Oswald’s crimelord status that gets them in for free, or the fact that he was the mayor once. Maybe both. He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t want to ruin the mood, and anyway, they are here to have some fun.

 

The first animals they spot are the red pandas, and Abigail squeals in delight. Most of the pandas are asleep, though, their bright fur easy to spot amongst the leaves and branches. Abigail takes a few pictures, then Oswald shows her one that is awake, sneaking down on a tree trunk. She snaps a few more pictures before they move to the moose enclosure. These animals too are mostly just lying around, eating passively.

 

Abigail seems a bit disappointed, so Jim buys popcorn for everyone in an attempt to cheer them up. Luckily, the mountain goats are more active, and they laugh at the baby goat trying to follow its mother on the rocks. Next, the Canadian lynx follow, and these animals are also more active, two males fighting playfully.

 

“Oooh, let’s go to the butterfly house!” Abigail hooks her arms in her dad’s and Oswald’s.

 

They all look in wonder as they enter the glass house: there are colorful flowers everywhere and hundreds of butterflies flitting about.

 

“Wow,” is all Abigail can say before she takes off her beanie and unzips her coat ‒ it’s very warm inside.

 

While the young girl goes further in to admire a group of Blue Morpho butterflies, Jim waits for Oswald, adjusting his pace to the gangster’s.

 

“How have you been?” Jim asks, not really looking at Oswald. “Abigail told me she had a lot of fun on New Year’s Eve.”

 

“I’m fine. She did? She didn’t complain about me falling asleep way too early, did she?”

 

Jim laughs, glancing at Oswald. “No. But she did tell me that apparently I owe you a favor.”

 

The mobster gasps, placing his gloved hand on Jim’s arm. “I… think I had a bit too much champagne that evening. I should have known my big mouth would get me into trouble. Please, forget about it, Jim.”

 

Jim is touched and amused by the worry in Oswald’s voice. “That’s not why I mentioned it,” he watches as a Monarch butterfly lands on the gangster’s shoulder and smiles. “In fact, I actually wanted to repay that favor. It’s about time. So what would you like me to do for you?”

 

Oswald swallows, his hand tightening involuntarily on Jim’s arm. He wishes he could ask the commissioner to hold his hand, or if he were so inclined, to kiss him, but instead he just smiles, a strange mix of melancholy and excitement encompassing him.

 

“I know I’m too late, but…”

 

“No, this is very kind of you, Jim, I just… I honestly have no idea what to ask for. But I promise I will tell you, as soon as possible.”

 

Jim’s face must show some of the disappointment he feels, because Oswald continues: “I might have asked for,” and he points at his upper lip with a grin, “but you already took care of it.”

 

The commissioner shakes his head, and Oswald laughs, walking towards Abigail who somehow managed to capture a Purple Emperor butterfly on her palm.

 

“Ozzie, look!”

 

The gangster quickly takes a picture of the young girl, before the butterfly moves to the pink flowers on their left. The three don’t really want to leave the glasshouse, and go out into the cold, but they want to see the polar animals too. They watch the arctic foxes and the polar bears, the seals which are swimming happily in the frigid water, and then they finally make it to the king penguins.

 

Oswald can feel tension across his shoulders, settling deep within the muscles when they stop in front of the penguins’ exhibit. He’s worried that between the unmistakable wobble and name sharing, the certain animals will remind the Gordons of the true nature of the man they have elected to spend their time with. He’s not ashamed of what he has done, what he still does ‒ the long list of crimes performed by his own hand. Oswald feels no guilt at what he has achieved; instead some other feeling gnaws at him. Watching the joy overtake Abigail’s face as she watches the penguins, he questions whether his friendship with the innocent girl is more of a hindrance, a poison slowly corrupting her. 

 

All his negative thoughts vanish when Abigail looks over her shoulder and beckons him over, grabbing his hand and dragging him closer to the glass. Neither one sees the discarded trash left in the walkway, and Abigail trips over, sailing forward, her face dangerously close to smacking against the glass. Immediately, Oswald drops his cane, forgotten, as he reaches out to steady Abigail.

 

He manages to catch her in time before she winds up with a bloody nose. The force and weight of pulling the young girl back sends a shooting pain up his injured leg, yet he pays no attention to it.

 

Oswald’s reflexes are much quicker than Jim’s. About the time Jim realized what was happening, the gangster’s arms had already shot out to catch his daughter. He watches with a growing feeling spreading in his chest as Oswald worriedly fusses over Abigail, hands flitting about around her face, eyes scanning over her, looking for any displays of pain. 

 

“I’m fine, Ozzie.” 

 

The air gets knocked out of Jim’s lungs when he sees Oswald’s answering smile. For a second, time seems to slow down and the moving bodies of the other visitors become a blur. All Jim is able to see is Oswald and his momentary surprise when Abigail takes his gloved hand once more. The quick glance Oswald does at their enclosed hands before providing his undivided attention to whatever Abby was saying.

 

_ Oh _ . Jim thinks. His abdominal muscles tighten at the swirling sensation in his stomach, like tiny butterflies are trapped inside, fluttering their wings.

 

Clarity dawns on him and everything slides into place. Somewhere along the way, something has shifted. Looking at Oswald now, Jim no longer sees just a criminal; instead, he’s able to see something more complex than black and white, can see all the beautiful shades in between. 

 

Jim ducks down to pick up Oswald’s forgotten cane before stepping forward to stand next to him. 

 

“Oswald.” His voice low as he holds out the cane for the mobster to take. Oswald turns, meeting Jim’s gaze before it falls to the walking stick.

 

Despite the chill in the air and even through the leather, Jim can feel the heat from Oswald’s fingers as they slip over Jim’s hand to take his cane back. His hand lingers longer than necessary, but Jim doesn’t want to break the contact just yet, lifting his eyes to Oswald’s before finally pulling away. 

 

There’s a little intake of breath and a pink flush that covers Oswald’s face so beautifully that Jim’s unable to tear his eyes away. 

 

“Aren’t the penguins so cute, dad?!” Abigail pulls both men's’ attention away from one another. 

 

“Pretty cute,” Jim responds in a gruff, amused voice, but he’s not watching the birds in front of him. 

 

Abigail skips ahead, still in both Jim and Oswald’s line of sight, leaving the two older men walking together, side by side. Jim’s heart is pounding, loud, thumping in his chest as they continue forward in silence. Walking so close to one another that their arms brush against each other. Every so often, Jim sneaks a side glance at Oswald. It is then that he notices the flush over his face, and the occasional wince at every other step. Oh God, he didn’t even think about Oswald’s leg.

 

Reaching out, he touches Oswald’s shoulder, stopping him. “Do you need to rest for a moment?” 

 

The brave face Oswald tries to maintain slips as soon as the question is out of Jim’s mouth. His face collapses into a grimace. “I-I’m sorry, Jim. It’s just my leg. It’s quite alright, I don’t want to interrupt Abigail’s fun.”

 

“Don’t worry about that. We should take a break anyway. I saw a small cafe nearby we can stop at for some warm drinks.” 

 

Luckily, the trip to the cafe is a short one, and Jim takes the responsibility of ordering the drinks, leaving Oswald and Abigail the task of finding a booth. As Jim approaches, he can see Abigail chatting to the mobster, who’s out of his view. Abigail is sitting across from Oswald instead of beside him. She’s placed all the souvenirs she’s gotten today on the seat, the ones Oswald shamelessly bought her despite Jim’s growing anxiety, blocking anyone from sitting next to her. Jim uses this as an excuse as to why he slides in next to Oswald.

 

Jim’s sitting close,  _ too close _ , but he doesn’t pull away, and neither does Oswald as their knees touch. They spend the next few minutes sipping their drinks, listening to Abigail fill the silence with interesting facts about the animals they’ve seen earlier and the occasional comment from the gangster. After a while, once everyone is done with their drinks, Jim notices that Oswald is no longer flush with exertion. 

 

Checking his watch, Jim stands, “We should probably get going if we want to pick up Cookie in time. Ready to go, Abby?”

 

She nods and starts to collect her trash, dumping it in one of the garbage bins. While she’s away, Oswald stands abruptly, “Let me drive you. After all, it’s the least I could do for cutting the day’s activities so short.” 

 

“What did I say earlier about not worrying about that?” Jim teases, earning a blush from the mobster which only makes Jim grin even more. “You don’t have to go out of your way. Besides, our car’s still out in the parking lot.”

 

Oswald dismissively waves his hand in the air, “Not to worry, I’ll have my men take care of it.”

 

Jim hesitates; while a part of him selfishly wants to spend more time with Oswald, he feels like this might be taking advantage of him. Before he gets the chance to decline the offer, Abigail decides for him.

 

“Ozzie’s taking us to get Cookie?! Perfect! He’s been missing you so much, Oz!” 

 

Internally, Jim groans as Abigail wraps her arm around Oswald’s, and leads him away, talking his ear off about the dog. He has no other choice but to accept Oswald’s offer now. Still, Jim isn’t able to deny the way his heart’s beating as Oswald glances over his shoulder back at him, looking for Jim’s approval. He’s only able to nod and Jim swears the smile that spreads across Oswald’s face knocks the breath out of him. Any doubt about taking up Oswald’s suggestion seems pointless. Jim thinks he might have blurted out yes to anything Oswald offered if he had been smiling like that.

 

As in the cafe, Jim winds up sitting beside Oswald again, Abigail across them with her plushies and other souvenirs. When they arrive to the dog salon, Abigail volunteers to get Cookie, leaving Jim and Oswald alone for a few minutes.

 

“I hope you had fun today,” Jim says, looking at Oswald’s hands as he takes off his gloves. He gulps as he realizes that even the gangster’s hands are nice.

 

“Of course, I always do with you two,” Oswald replies, beaming.

 

Before Jim is about to do something foolish like take Oswald’s hand in his, the door is opened and a very excited Cookie jumps in, going straight to Oswald.

 

“Look at his tail, he’s so happy to see you!” Abigail says as she gets in.

 

Indeed, Cookie hops on the seat between Jim and Oswald, his rapidly wagging tail hitting Jim’s left arm as he basks in Oswald’s attention. “What a big boy you are, Cookie! And so soft!”

 

Jim and Abigail look at each other and laugh at Oswald’s cooing. When Cookie gets bored of Oswald’s ministrations, he moves to Jim’s lap, sitting proudly. 

 

“You know, dad is his favorite,” Abigail explains to the gangster. “Whenever he’s home, Cookie just sits in his lap, even if the couch is empty.”

 

“He’s spoiled,” Jim says with a sigh, but he’s smiling fondly, scratching behind the dog’s ear. Cookie obviously agrees with the statement, getting even closer to his owner.

 

Oswald tries to snap a picture of them in secret, but Jim catches him. However, instead of a frown, Jim turns towards him with a lopsided smile, and Oswald blushes, pocketing his phone with intense satisfaction at having captured such a perfect picture. When he looks up, he notices Abigail looking at him with an impish sparkle in her eyes which makes him blush even more.

 

Once they make it to their house, the Gordons take their warm farewell from Oswald: Abigail hugs him, Cookie gives him some wet puppy kisses and Jim shakes his hand, his thumb caressing the gangster’s for a second, before he lets go reluctantly.

  
“We’ll keep in touch,” he says before closing the door, and Oswald leans against the leather seat, his heart melting. He feels young again, full of hopes and dreams, and this time they might even come true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have the time, please go sign this petition regarding making gobblepot canon!: https://www.change.org/p/william-morris-endeavor-entertainment-bruno-heller-please-make-gobblepot-canon


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, people, the final chapter. We can't believe this is the end. Thank you so much for your continuous support and comments, they always make us smile! <333
> 
> Many thanks again to Nekomata59818, our fabulous beta!

When Jim assured Oswald that they would keep in touch, he kept his promise. The very next day, he phones the mobster up. He almost convinces himself to hang up, but the moment he hears Oswald’s voice, he’s certain he made the right choice. 

 

“Jim. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” 

 

“Hi Oswald, I was calling because…”  _ Why was he calling?  _ Jim couldn’t possibly say he just wanted to hear Oswald’s voice. He digs around his brain, searching for a plausible excuse. Finally, he comes up with one, “I was just calling to thank you for yesterday. Abigail enjoys spending time with you, and it means a lot that you would endure the cold for her sake.” 

 

Oswald brushes off the gratitude, “No need, I had a lovely time yesterday.”

 

“I did too,” Jim agrees softly. 

 

After that, the phone calls with the gangster become a regular thing. They talk about anything and everything, sometimes about Abigail, or sometimes Jim would ring Oswald up to tell him about his day after a long one of dealing with idiots. Oswald always manages to squeeze out a laugh from him, and Jim discovers that his days always significantly improve after their conversations. 

 

He’s in the middle of one of these phone calls when Harvey knocks on the door of his office before peeking his head through the crack of the agape door. Jim beckons him inside, holds out a finger, telling him to take a seat.

 

“Alright, I have to go now, but I’ll try that trick the next time I have a headache, maybe it’ll work for me as well. Thank you, hope you have a nice day as well! Talk to you later! Bye!”

 

Jim can’t help but smile as he puts down the receiver. The moment he looks at Harvey, though, he realizes that it might not have been the cleverest idea.

 

“So I was right,’ Harvey says with resignation, leaning against his seat. “There  _ is  _ someone.”

 

Before Jim could deny anything, Harvey continues: “The only thing I was wrong about was that it’s not a woman. It’s Penguin, isn’t it?”

 

“Harvey... “

 

“No, Jim, I don’t mean to… look, I’ve always known your tastes are pretty shit -”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Well, look at your dating history, it’s not very nice. But I also know that I haven’t seen you this happy in forever.”

 

Jim looks up, surprised. Maybe this won’t turn into a lecture.

 

“You know, I always thought that he liked you. More than liked you, actually. And I know I encouraged you to keep in touch with him, because he could provide useful intel for us. But then you had that big fallout, and I was relieved, Jimbo. But you two can’t seem to be able to stay away from each other for too long. It’s like something always pulls you back to him.

 

“I don’t care who you take to your bed, but be careful, okay?”

 

“It’s not like that,” Jim mumbles, staring at the files on his desk.

 

“Yes, I figured that the situation is worse. You’re in love,” Harvey sighs.

 

Jim doesn’t deny it: there’s no point. Harvey’s known him for too many years. Hearing it also helps with admitting this fact to himself. He’s had to suppress any kind of feelings ‒ except for anger ‒ towards Oswald for so long, that he could cry from the weight lifted from his chest. He never thought that Harvey would tolerate it.

 

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way?” Jim asks, raking his fingers through his hair.

 

Harvey’s laughter melts away his worry. “ _ Please _ . But you need to do something concrete. You need to woo him. Ask him out on a date, buy him flowers, whatever people do to seduce mobsters.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Jim laughs, and Harvey leaves his office to resume work.

 

Abigail was convinced that the zoo trip would be all the intervening she would have to do to get Oswald and her father together. She made sure to give the two men time alone during the trip, plenty of opportunities to spend time together without her interrupting, and it paid off. She watched the way her father and Oswald exchanged looks. It was different from their usual gazing; this time it was full of soft expressions and crinkled eyes. They looked at one another like they were in love. 

 

So throughout the duration of the time spent at the zoo, Abigail had been expecting some kind of declaration of affections, but it never came. Clearly, she thinks, she had underestimated her father’s taciturn nature. 

 

Abigail doesn’t believe that the outing was a waste of efforts, though, not after discovering the daily calls her father and the mobster have since the visit to the zoo. She came home one day after school to the sound of laughter echoing through the house. 

 

“Dad?” She followed the noise, and found that it was coming from the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway when she saw her dad reaching into the fridge, talking on the phone. Whatever the person had just said, had her father doubled over, laughing, in tears. 

 

The sight of him so unabridged with his emotions shocked her, the abundance of joy pouring from him was a rare sight, and she was certainly curious as to who could cause his usual stoic mask to disappear. 

 

“Who are you talking to?” She couldn’t help but ask with a smile.

 

“Oh, Abby. Didn’t hear you come in.” Jim straightened, still grinning as he wiped the corner of his eyes. “Just Oswald.”

It was then she knew that her efforts paid off, that it  _ has  _ brought Oswald and her dad closer. It just wasn’t enough. 

 

There has to be something else. Something bolder than her past attempts. When the perfect idea comes to her, it’s like a light bulb goes off over her head. Dinner! Not just any dinner either, this needs to be intimate, away from  the public eye. So it can’t take place just anywhere, it has to be the perfect spot where both men would feel comfortable ‒ her father especially. The only place Abigail can think of that both of them would feel at ease is the Gordons’ residence. 

 

The next time she stops at the club, she finds Oswald back behind the bar again. It reminds her of the first time being here. A lot has changed since then, she’s no longer failing her classes and is now close friends with the most dangerous mobster in all of Gotham city. She approaches the bar, taking a sit on one of the stools. 

 

“Hi, Ozzie!” 

 

Oswald finishes stocking the bar, turns to face the young girl with a smile. “Hello, Abigail-”

 

She cuts him off, a bit eager. “Are you doing anything this Friday?” 

 

“I… I don’t believe so… May I ask why?” His eyes are narrowed. Abigail knows that look. She has seen it on the gangster many times. 

 

“Oh, well, Dad’s going to be cooking, and I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with us?”

 

He doesn’t seem to buy her innocent expression.

 

“Miss Abigail, what are you up to?” 

 

She feigns hurt, clutching her chest with a hand, “Me? I’m not up to anything, I just thought you would want to join family dinner, but I guess I was wrong...”

 

Oswald backpedals, “Now, wait just a minute, I didn’t say that I wouldn’t attend.”

 

“Good!” Abigail grins, “We’ll see you there!”

 

Oswald opens his mouth, but no words seem to be able to come out. Sometimes talking with him, Abigail finds, is sort of like playing chess. He’s usually ten steps ahead, but the trick, she learns through many of their encounters, is the act of surprise and catching him off guard. 

 

But it doesn’t last long. 

 

“If this is another one of your attempts to convince me of the ridiculous notion your father has a ‘thing’ for me, it won’t work. Don’t think I didn’t realize what you were doing at the zoo.” 

 

“But Ozzie, I’m not lying. Dad’s genuinely in love with you. Can’t you see it?”

 

The previous times she has brought up this subject, the gangster would usually turn pink and stutter. This time, however, it’s different. 

 

He gives Abigail a resigned smile as he circles the bar and takes a seat beside her. “What I see is a young girl who gave me the one thing I always wanted: friendship. If that is all Jim wants from me, that is all I need. 

 

“I will always be eternally grateful that you brought Jim back in my life.” Oswald cups her face with both hands before giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. “Now, you say your father’s cooking? This coming from the same man that used to live off of street food. Please, tell me we won’t be eating street vendor hot dogs.”

 

It saddens Abigail that Oswald seems to have resigned himself to the fact that her father isn’t interested in him. They seem to be perfect for one another ‒ both too stubborn for their own good. Her father is too stubborn to admit his feelings, and Oswald is obstinate, refusing to see the truth of the matter. 

 

She just hopes this plan will be enough. Her father doesn’t seem to mind all that much her inviting Oswald over when she breaks the news to him.

 

“Dad, I invited Oswald for dinner on Friday,” the girl announces as she plops down on the sofa.

 

“Oh… okay,” he answers, and she notices a minor change in his expression, as if he’s just had an idea.

 

“You know, you should cook something nicer,” Abigail adds carefully, hoping that her father gets her point. “Something more impressive than hot dogs.”

 

Jim panics for a moment, but hides it well enough. “Uhhh… how about some pasta?”

 

“Just don’t burn it, okay?”

 

“Excuse me, I don’t think I’m as helpless in the kitchen as you think,” Jim says with a smile, but then he frowns. “Why are you so invested, though?”

 

“Well, if you remember, Oswald made us an amazing Christmas lunch, so we shouldn’t embarrass ourselves,” Abigail sighs, not even looking up from her laptop’s screen.

 

“I guess you're right.”

 

A few days later, Abigail glances at the watch in the kitchen ‒ it’s almost time for her quick exit. Before she goes, though, she needs to make sure that everything is under control. She peeks into the bedroom, where her father is hesitating between two shirts.

 

“Which one?”

 

“The blue one, obviously,” Abigail sighs, “it brings out your eyes.”

 

“Thanks,” Jim breathes in with relief, and quickly buttons up the shirt.

 

“I’ll, uh, take Cookie out for a walk, okay, dad? Don’t forget about the lasagna; it should be done in fifteen-twenty minutes.”

 

“Sure, sweetheart.”

 

Jim busies himself with setting the table when the doorbell rings. It’s too soon to be Abigail, and anyway, she has a key, so it must be Oswald.

 

Indeed, when Jim opens the door, the man turns with a radiant smile. “Good evening, Jim.”

 

“Oswald. Come in,” Jim smiles involuntarily, acknowledging the now familiar sensation of butterflies in his stomach that appears every time he sees the gangster.

 

“I brought wine,” Oswald grins as he raises the bottle in his hand. “Where’s Abigail?”

 

“She went out to walk Cookie,” Jim takes the wine to the kitchen, his phone beeping. “Oh, it’s a text from her.”

 

‘Don’t wait for me, I went to Uncle Harvey. Please don’t mess it up!!!’

 

“Apparently it’ll be just us tonight,” Jim says, and both he and Oswald blush, but neither comments on Abigail’s obvious trick.

 

“Would you like me to open the wine?” Oswald offers, and Jim hands him a corkscrew. He checks on the lasagna: the cheese melted wonderfully on top, so Jim takes it out and carefully places it on the table.

 

“That smells really good,” Oswald says looking at the dish. “You know, I’m starting to think that you’re trying to hide your culinary talents. The Christmas dinner was really delicious too.”

 

Jim laughs as he takes out two wine glasses. “I had help. I’m really nowhere near close your level of expertise. May I?” he asks as he cuts a square of lasagna for Oswald.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Oswald and Jim have a pleasant dinner; luckily, the lasagna came out really well, so Jim doesn’t have to be embarrassed about that. However, he doesn’t quite know how to make a move, and drowns his nerves in the wine, which even his underdeveloped palate can appreciate how exquisite it is. He mentions it to the gangster who smiles, and thanks him.

 

“Why don’t we move to the living room?” Jim suggests when they are finished with their seconds. “It’s more comfortable there.”

 

Jim waits for Oswald to find a good spot on the sofa, and thinking about Harvey’s pep talk and Abigail’s message, he sits very close to the gangster.

 

“So, tell me, did you manage to solve the rodent problem at the GCPD?” Oswald asks, unbothered by Jim’s thigh pressing against his own.

 

This time, it’s Jim’s turn to make Oswald laugh; he recounts how Alvarez climbed on his table when a tiny mouse emerged.

 

“He refused to get off his desk even after the mouse was caught. Sadly, it wasn’t the only one, but the exterminators dealt with them. Harvey still found some excrements in his drawers.”

 

Oswald throws his head back, laughing until tears escape from his eyes. Jim feels proud at having caused such a reaction; he’s mesmerized yet again by the gangster’s beauty. He doubts whether he deserves to see this, to be this close to Oswald, but he allowed Jim to knot any severed ties and form new ones, so he must want this too. Nevertheless, knowing the gangster, Oswald will not risk this blooming relationship by doing anything reckless.

 

It’s time for Jim to be bold.

 

“Oswald… I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough,” Jim says, and Oswald’s expression changes. “For what you’ve done for me and Abby.”

 

“O-Of course,” Oswald whispers, his right hand moving from his to Jim’s knee, patting it. “You know I care about you both a lot.”

 

“I care about you with all my heart,” Jim blurts out, and he thinks it’s the silliest declaration he’s ever heard, but he reaches out for Oswald’s face all the same, and once Oswald’s eyes widen with realization, he leans in to kiss the gangster.

 

It is a simple kiss, paradoxical to their complicated past. A gentle press of lips, but it has Jim’s heart racing. Since the zoo trip, he’s been plagued with urges, longings of reaching out and planting a kiss on the mobster, to feel Oswald’s lips on his. 

 

Oswald is the first to pull away, fingers covering his own lips like he couldn’t register the kiss they’ve just shared. “I… Did you mean that?” 

 

In lieu of an answer, Jim pulls him in for another kiss. Oswald’s eyes flutter shut as he sighs into it. All Jim can think about is how stupid he’s been for having fought against this for so long ‒ he suddenly feels complete, as if a missing piece has just been reattached to him. He lets go of Oswald, but doesn’t pull away, panting against the gangster’s hot cheek.

 

“I know I’ve been nothing but mean and rude to you during most of these years,” Jim whispers, his hand slipping from Oswald’s face to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, you deserved so much better. You just made me feel all these emotions I didn’t know what to do with. But if you want to give me a second chance, I promise I will try to make it up to you.”

 

Oswald leans back and tilts Jim’s face towards him, his eager eyes inspecting the Commissioner’s expression carefully. Jim thinks this is the longest second of his life, but finally Oswald smiles, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Jim… my Jim,” is all he can say before he hugs Jim, his embrace tight, as if he’s afraid he might disappear.

 

“I still remember when you appeared in that alley and told me to drop the bat,” Oswald murmurs against Jim, who feels like their first meeting was a hundred years ago. “I already knew that I would do everything you asked me. That you were a beacon of light in the darkness of the city, and I would never let you fade away,” Oswald looks up, his fingers tightly clutching Jim’s lapels. “That I would never stop loving you.”

 

They share a few more kisses, trying to find a comfortable position.

 

“Can you… straddle me?” Jim asks, blushing even more.

 

“Yes, I think so,” Oswald answers, getting up and settling on Jim’s lap with his help. “Well, this is new.”

 

“It definitely is. I hope it doesn’t hurt?” Jim rubs Oswald’s bad knee, the worry in his tone making the mobster put his arms around Jim’s neck.

 

“No, I’m fine.” He smiles when Jim’s other hand moves to his back, bringing him closer. “Now kiss me.”

 

“Bossy,” Jim says with a smile, but of course, he complies, he wants to do this all evening. 

 

He doesn’t think he’s been this happy, not in many years anyway. Because whenever Oswald looks at him, he not only feels loved, but actually precious, even  _ invaluable _ . It makes his heart speed up. But then the gangster giggles against his lip, and Jim looks up at him with confusion.

 

“What?”

 

There’s a look of concentration on Oswald’s face as his right thumb gently traces Jim’s upper lip where his mustache used to be. “How glad I am that you shaved this off… imagine kissing with that prickly thing.”

 

Jim glares at Oswald whose eyes sparkle with impishness. “In fact, I’m not even sure I would have kissed you.”

 

“Hey now,” Jim exclaims, but Oswald laughs, kissing him again.

 

“I’m glad you’re not hiding this handsome face anymore.”

 

Jim cocks his head to the side, “Handsome, huh?” 

 

He can feel Oswald smile against his lips, murmurs, agreeing, “Very handsome.”

 

The gangster’s nose brushes along Jim’s as he leans forward, capturing Jim’s mouth once more. The mobster has nice hands; they have caught Jim’s attention numerous times. Jim was forced to admire Oswald at a distance, but now that he’s got Oswald in his lap, he’s unable to resist sliding his hands into Oswald’s, lacing their fingers, something he’s been wanting to do for a while now. 

 

Oswald tastes good, Jim thinks, like a swirl of mint and chocolate in one. Once they start kissing, it’s a struggle to pull away, but Oswald seems to manage it. He’s breathless when he swivels his head around to look at a nearby clock, hands splayed on Jim’s rapidly rising and falling chest.

He seems disappointed when he realizes how late it is, but the look quickly vanishes when he turns back to the commissioner. Jim’s lips are swollen and red, and a smug look passes over his face as he examines his work. 

 

“You look positively ruined,” Oswald says proudly with a throaty voice. Jim holds back a groan, knowing that Oswald’s probably right about the state of him. However, Oswald doesn’t appear to be unaffected either. Jim runs his hand up the nape of the gangster’s neck before cupping the back of his head and slotting their mouths together again. 

 

Oswald indulges him, letting Jim’s tongue explore before he gives a one last quick peck to the other man’s lips and leans back. 

 

“Despite how much I would like to kiss you for the remainder of the night,” Oswald moves to stand, slipping out of Jim’s lap without any struggle. It takes everything for Jim not to chase after him, like he’s intoxicated by Oswald’s kisses alone. He knows that the wine from earlier definitely plays a part of the buzzing feeling in his head. 

 

“I need to get home. It’s late and Abigail should be arriving home soon.” Oswald straightens his clothes, at least makes an attempt to before resigning and giving up on the futile task.

 

“Abby’s spending the night at Harvey’s,” Jim informs him, letting the meaning of the words settle in the space between them. 

 

The gangster’s eyes flit upward, away from the buttons of his waistcoat ‒ Jim doesn’t even remember undoing them ‒ meeting Jim’s gaze unwaveringly. “Is that so?”

 

“It’s pretty late.” Jim follows suit, standing up from the couch as he nods. Jim doesn’t want this night to end. It’s been the best evening he’s had in the last several years. He wants Oswald to stay. _ Please, _ Jim pleads internally,  _ just ask me _ .

 

He can see the cogs moving behind Oswald’s eyes, and Jim watches the moment Oswald realizes his intention behind the words.

 

“You know…” He starts, “I just thought of how you can repay me for that favor you still owe me.”

 

“Oh? And what would you like of me?” Oswald visibly swallows as Jim closes the distance between. 

 

“Invite me to stay for the night since it  _ is  _ awfully late.”

 

Jim can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face as he ducks down to give the gangster a kiss as an answer.

 

The next morning, Jim wakes to a body pressed and curled up against him. For a split second, he freezes.  _ What the hell?  _ It’s been a long time since he’s woken up with another person in his bed. But then soft fingers caress his right shoulder, and Jim would recognize that touch anywhere. He smiles as his face and neck are showered with playful, stubbly kisses. 

 

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Oswald giggles, and Jim grunts, glaring with one eye at the gangster.

 

Oswald is half lying on Jim’s chest, resuming his task of kissing along the commissioner’s jawline. Jim is just lying there with his eyes closed, enjoying the pampering, his left hand rubbing along Oswald’s spine. 

 

“Mmh, I didn’t know you could grow a stubble,” he murmurs, still half asleep.

 

“What? Of course I can!”

 

Jim’s eyes open suddenly, and he can see that Oswald is offended, but there’s also a devilish grin on his face.

 

“How about this, do you believe now that I can grow a stubble?” the gangster asks as he starts rubbing his face against Jim’s neck and bare chest.

 

“Ouch, Oswald, stop!” Jim yelps at the abrasive, but also ticklish sensation, his laughter echoing in the bedroom. Of course, he does nothing to stop the gangster who’s enjoying the game way too much.

 

“Can you feel it, Jim?!”

 

“No!”

 

Oswald crawls up on Jim’s body, effectively straddling him, rubbing his face against Jim’s throat and face vigorously while enjoying the way Jim’s body shakes with giggles.

 

“How about now?” the gangster asks, whispering in Jim’s ear, his soft pants making the silver hair at Jim’s temple quiver.

 

“Yes, yes, mercy! Mercy, Oswald!” Jim replies, his stomach muscles hurting from so much laughing. “Your stubble is magnificent, and I was a fool for doubting you.”

 

Oswald smiles and leans in to give Jim his prize kiss. “Correct answer, Commissioner. You deserve some breakfast.”

 

It takes a while before Oswald and Jim drag themselves out of bed; once Jim finds a particular patch of Oswald’s shoulder where he fixes his lips at, kissing the bare skin, earning appreciative noises from the gangster. It’s not until a good fifteen minutes later that they make it out from under the covers. Even then, as Jim tosses Oswald a shirt to borrow, they linger in one another’s space, standing far too close, neither one wanting to fully break contact. Jim helps Oswald get the shirt over his head, both grinning at each other like two wide-eyed teenagers encountering their first love. It’s not until Jim’s stomach rumbles loudly that Oswald pushes Jim out of the bedroom in the direction of the kitchen. 

 

After digging around the cabinets, Oswald finds a box of pancake mix and starts on making breakfast for the two of them with plenty leftovers enough to feed four more people. Jim stands out of Oswald’s way while he cooks, taking a seat at the kitchen table instead, knowing full well that any help from him could result in burnt pancakes.

 

Neither one hears Harvey’s car pull up in the driveway. The entire morning, on the drive back home, Abigail’s mind has been preoccupied with thoughts about her father’s date. She is dying to know how the evening went, if her meddling worked. She waves a quick goodbye to Harvey before rushing inside, Cookie’s leash in one hand. Once inside, she unclips the leash from Cookie’s collar, letting him free to his own devices before calling out to her father.

 

“Hi, dad! I’m home!” She follows after Cookie whose nose picked up a scent; the aroma of breakfast cooking wafts into the other rooms. Dad must be in the kitchen, she thinks, although his breakfasts don’t usually smell  _ this  _ good.

 

She cuts her movements short once she steps into the kitchen, and is greeted with the sight of Oswald standing by the stove. 

 

Her eyes widen as she turns to her father, grinning, and mouths, _ “Oswald’s still here?!”  _ The reaction alone from her father is enough to make her laugh, his face turning bright red. His face turns even brighter when she sends him two thumbs up for the clear success he had with the date last night with the mobster.

 

“Hi, Ozzie!” She greets him with warmth, ducking under his arm while he flips pancakes in a pan, giving him a quick hug. He returns it with a side embrace, using the one arm that’s free, and kissing the top of her head before she steps away. 

 

During this, she notices the shirt he’s wearing, or rather, her father’s shirt he’s donning. 

 

“Hey… isn’t that dad’s shirt?” She questions, and immediately hears her dad splutter, choking on his orange juice. 

 

“Jim, are you alright?” Oswald asks as he moves away from the oven, carrying a stack of pancakes on a plate and placing it onto the table. After ensuring that Jim is fine, Oswald turns to Abigail with a knowing look at her actions, and she’s rewarded with a small grin from him.

 

Breakfast at the Gordons were an entirely different affair from the one they’re experiencing now. Most of the time, her father already left for work or when he was here, he spent the morning silent, reading the newspaper alone at the kitchen table.

 

With Oswald here, the whole atmosphere changes, like his presence alone fills a vacancy that has lingered in the Gordon household for a long time. Abigail’s heart swells as she notices how Oswald and her dad keep sneaking glances at one another, smiling and blushing when they catch each other stare. Both of them look genuinely happy just being together in close proximity. 

 

Abigail ponders about what would have become of her father and Oswald’s relationship had she not been assigned that history essay, whether without her project they would still be here now, sitting around at the table like a family. She certainly likes the idea of having brought them together, but Abigail thinks she can’t take all the credit, not after slipping some scraps to Cookie and catching her father capture Oswald’s hand from under the table, linking them together. 

 

She doesn’t have the full story, just bits of truths here and there, but she knows that Oswald and her father’s past has been rocky, whatever it was causing their paths to divide and grow further apart until they were resting just outside of each other’s range. Abigail wants to believe that walking into Oswald’s club that day, asking for his help, had been the force that rocketed the two of them back into each other’s orbit. 

 

But seeing them now, she knows that nothing would have kept them apart. That her father and Oswald are magnets, bound by the laws of physics, that they would always gravitate towards one another.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you soon, hopefully, with our next collab!


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